


The Pumpkin Scone Conspiracy by oliversnape

by oliversnape



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Post - Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-16
Updated: 2010-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 53,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliversnape/pseuds/oliversnape
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war, Harry finds Severus under house arrest, himself badgered for publicity stunts, and the memories of his friends tampered with. Severus learns to tolerate Potter as they try to figure out just who is manipulating the wizarding world, and why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a lighter hurt/comfort fic. It's got a happy ending, and there's only a few heavy bits. Many thanks to Pygmy for the idea help.

The first thing that Severus thinks when he wakes up is that the frost creeping through the attic rafters means that it’s time to harvest his pumpkins. It is a Tuesday, and that means Tolstoy will be by that morning to help.  As he rises out of bed, cracked heels and knobby toes planting on the cold wooden floor, he gives pause to his other thoughts.  It has been four months since he has moved to this little cottage in western Scotland, and it is his mother’s birthday. In celebration of this, Severus opens the new pack of undergarments in his rickety drawer, slipping them on fast enough to beat the goose bumps sliding over his pasty legs. It is not yet six-thirty in the morning, and the sun will not have warmed up his attic bedroom for another few hours yet.

 

Severus pulls on faded work pants and a light jumper, fishing out socks from the box on top of his dresser.  He limps steadily to the ladder sticking up from the floor, a mere six steps from the dresser.  The attic bedroom is tiny, and except for a small path around the bed and dresser Severus cannot stand straight without hitting his head.  He prefers to sleep in enclosed spaces, and there are fewer nightmares to be found in the rafters.

 

Severus counts as he descends to the main floor. Not the steps that he takes (fourteen – that count was for another day a long time ago), but the time it takes him to get there.  He knows with the first frost that it will be a painful day.  His cane leans against the corner of the bookcase, an arm’s reach away and just at the junction between the living room and front entry.  The cottage is small enough though that Severus can navigate it in mere moments, scarred leg or no.

 

He sits at the kitchen table a few hours later, enjoying his morning tea break and ignoring the politicians screeching for his support on the radio. Does this town even have a mayor? A summer here, and he still doesn’t know.  The only person he really talks to is Tolstoy, and Tolstoy doesn’t quite answer back.  Severus stands, and using his cane, makes his way to the front hall. Two steps.  And two knocks on the door, for it is ten straight up and Tolstoy does not know how to be late. 

 

“Rus,” Tolstoy says, drawing out the ‘us’.  He is eight or nine, Severus has never asked, and his dark brown hair seems not to quite match with the bright blue eyes.

 

“Rus,” Tolstoy repeats, staring past Severus’ shoulder. 

 

“The pumpkins today, Tolstoy,” Severus answers, looking up the garden path hill, to where he can see Tolstoy’s grandfather watching, before leaving.

 

“Youuuuu have mail,” Tolstoy says, refusing to move.  The boy has an odd speech pattern, most often repetitive and robotic, but he seems to get stuck on the letter u. Perhaps it is his favourite.

 

Severus has no time to think of the intricacies of the human mind and speech, however, as he is busy staring at the postcard in Tolstoy’s hand.  Every Tuesday when Tolstoy comes, since the first time he’d come to visit after escaping his grandad’s watch, he checks the unused muggle post box at the top of the hill where Severus’ gate is.  A pattern, his grandfather had explained, after the first Tuesday. 

 

This is the first time there has ever been mail, and Tolstoy’s lack of reaction is made up by Severus’ astonishment.

 

The postcard is surprisingly tasteful, a warm picture of rolling green hills of southern Ireland, clouds crowning the sky.

 

_A man’s worth is no greater than the worth of his ambitions._

 

_Ache._

 

Severus wonders what kind of idiot would name a child of theirs ‘ache’.   Then again, his muggle neighbours had always wondered what kind of name Severus was for a boy.  The last great Severus hadn’t existed since Roman times.   There is no other identifying feature on the card, merely a postmark from Cork.  Severus squints to read the date, but the ink has become smudged in transit and so he doesn’t know how long this card has been waiting to find him. 

 

He will never forget the words of Salazaar Slytherin though, and he stares at them inscribed in regular muggle ink.  He’s been part of the magical world for thirty-nine years, and knows well enough that coincidences are never just so. No matter how much the ministry wants to sequester him away, someone knows he’s here.

 

As Tolstoy moves to go outside, the routine down to the pumpkin patch as familiar to him as taking his afternoon tea, Severus hesitates for a moment. He stands over the rubbish bin in the kitchen, but at the last moment turns and attaches the postcard to the fridge with a small magnet.  The postcard puzzles him, but it does much to cheer up his tiny home.

 

It is only an hour later, when Tolstoy is counting the pumpkins for the fourth time, that Severus realizes this is the first postcard he’s ever received.

 

…..

 

For dinner, Severus pulls out his mother’s recipe book from the bookcase in the kitchen and sets about to make her favourite meat pie.  He knows the recipe by heart; it’s more familiar to him than a calming draught or a forgetfulness potion.  But he flips to the correct page anyway, and follows her familiar neat handwriting as if reading a letter from her. Autumn nights are chilly in his little dell, shielded by trees from the road above, but he rarely casts a warming charm.  The fire is usually enough, and he doesn’t like the ministry visits to last longer than they need. As it is, it already takes the uninvited auror ten minutes to check over the spell list on the house.

 

Severus stands to take the bottle of milk from the fridge and his eyes fall on the postcard again.  He touches the corner of it, wondering if Ireland would cure him, if he knows what is broken. 

 

Severus sleeps well that night, wrapped in his quilt from Hogwarts. The air carries peat on it, the scent of decaying leaves, and he dreams of a castle rebuilding itself.

 

……

 

Fridays are market days. The market in his village is open on Saturday as well, but Severus prefers to go on a Friday morning because there are less people, and at nine o’clock the auror comes for his weekly visit.  Severus arrives back home at precisely nine, not because he is pressed for time, but because he knows it irritates the auror to be kept waiting. Severus walks down the path, his domineering stride diminished slightly by his cane and slight limp.  He walks with presence though, like a man who is busy and has things to do.

 

He knows that he has limited options though, and the auror, a short spotty youth who likely graduated only a year before, doesn’t remind him of it.  It is left unspoken, but Severus knows that he will never be accepted back into proper wizarding society, not for a long time.  Five years is the home arrest period imposed by the ministry. Five years of complex brewing restrictions, weekly check ups on his home and wand, and a four-hour window per week in which he can leave his property.  An extra fifteen minutes on Fridays, as they know they are his market days.  He is allowed to cast five spells from a restricted list per day, and any transfiguration magic reverts at midnight.

 

Severus doesn’t know how long the public’s damnation will last. Albus Dumbledore was a beloved old fool, even to those whom had long left Hogwarts.  His death is not the one that shackles Severus.

 

He puts the groceries away as the auror bluntly looks around the cottage, skimming over his bookcases that crowd the small living room, poking his head up the ladder to his bedroom. The auror, whose name Severus refuses to learn, skims a print out of every new object or food that Severus has brought onto the property that week. Nothing seems to stand out and the list is filed into the folder the auror carries.  Severus calmly puts the groceries into his cupboard, tins of tea next to the saltine crackers and raspberry jam.  There is a disgusted look on the auror’s face, partially hidden, that tells Severus the man cannot wait to leave.

 

“I need your receipts,” the auror demands, and taps his foot while Severus draws little pieces of paper from his pocket.  He smoothes them out on the table, taking his time to ensure they’re flattened, before filing them in the muggle recipe tin he bought in town last winter.  They’re sorted by shop, and he hands the tin over. 

 

“Have you done any wandless magic in the past week?” The auror asks, removing a little card from his robes. Severus has yet to figure out if the card just has a script on it, or if it does actually record his answers.

 

“No.”

 

“Have you earned any income that you have not reported?” The voice is gruff and accusing, as if Severus is not worthy of earning money.

 

“No,” Severus flicks his eyes towards the bookcase, to a hollowed out book that contains a few measly galleons. He does this every week, and the auror follows his gaze before relaxing and pre-emptively answering the rest of the questions on the card. 

 

His real stash of galleons is nestled in an old hot chocolate tin, under the third floorboard in the pantry. It’s right next to his mother’s wand that he never uses.

 

“Have you been in contact with Harry Potter?”

 

This is a new question, and it startles Severus as he answers no immediately, and forgets that he’s not lying.  He’s not seen Potter since May, since he’d been thrown out of St. Mungo’s, and the last image he has of Potter is a rather unflattering one.

 

“Right. Done for this week, Snape,” the auror barely looks at him as he storms out of the cottage, walking hurriedly up the garden path towards the gate.  It’s as if he can’t stand being in Severus’ sight any longer than absolutely necessary, yet it’s still him who visits every week.

 

On his good days he wonders if this isn’t just a farce, some sick joke that a demented student has decided on after the war.  On his bad days he wonders if Tolstoy isn’t an Unspeakable.

 

There is another small box of ingredients that the auror has left on his front step, dumped there to allow Severus to brew Potion º 22-942, what the ministry incorrectly labels as Wolfsbane.  This is a new era for the wizarding world, and it is one of the only potions he’s allowed to create. For some reason, the ministry wants to remain in the good graces of all its citizens.  Severus has never asked what they’re doing for the vampires.

 

Severus stands in the door, wondering whether to have hot apple cider or tea, when he notices that something is off with his mailbox.  Taking his cane, Severus wanders up the path with a bit of trepidation, the last time any real mail had been sent and intended for him had been some rubbish from a local council inviting him to an afternoon tea committee. He’d used it as a fire starter that night.

 

Severus is not disappointed however, as he bats away an errant earwig and finds another postcard in the mailbox, this one from a place called Cobh.

 

_Wit beyond measure is man’s greatest treasure._

 

_Perhaps one day, Professor._

 

_Ache._

 

Severus stares out the kitchen window as the kettle boils.  The old man who’d lived at this house before had not been a professor. Severus, no matter what the ministry proclaims, knows the title is still his.

 

Severus almost burns his dinner that evening as he wonders who would be writing to him, and what sort of trickery they have planned.

 

……..

 

The Daily Prophet is delivered to him free of charge, and Severus has a theory that it is done so he can feel jealous reading about a world he’s no longer a part of. It doesn’t work, as Severus misses very few things from his previous life, but he is a resourceful and so he accepts the free paper for its use as kindling or wrapping.  This time before he throws it into the grate, he notices that the front-page story details a new flavour of Bertie Botts Beans, of all things. Victory Beans, bright poppy red that taste like happiness. Severus reads swiftly, he has always been a speed-reader and it is one of the things his father complimented him on.  It has been four months since the Dark Lord was disposed of, and they are now introducing a new flavour of Bertie Botts Beans to celebrate this. Severus wonders why this is such a news breaker, but then he has been holed up in his cottage and therefore cannot gauge whether outrage is an appropriate reaction or not.

 

Severus is up early, it is a clear and cool day and he feels like a younger man.  He finishes the paper quickly, along with his meager oatmeal breakfast. Severus purposefully avoids the mirror, instead taking sure-footed steps towards the small pantry cold-cellar where boxes of his produce are kept.  He pulls his small cart out of the pantry and checks the calendar to see which boxes to include. It’s just six am, and the man who takes Severus’ wares to the market will be along shortly. 

 

He finally packs a box of canned apple butter, another box of canned applesauce, and some pre-made tubs of apple pie filling.  He could sell apples; Severus knows that it’s the right time for the varieties that his small orchard offers, however he’d be competing with other apple sellers in the area and is aware that his creations fetch him rather more. Severus relies on muggles too busy or lazy to make their own, and his mother’s excellent recipe book.

 

Severus meets Iain down at the end of the little walkway of his cottage, far beyond the muggle repelling charms that the ministry has placed on his property. Iain is a gentle old man who walks with a small hunch of his shoulders, kind brown eyes and few words.  He reminds Severus of the Albus Dumbledore that cared without restraint for his students and teachers, a thought that Severus doesn’t like to entertain much.

 

“Nae pie yet?” Iain asks, and he withdraws an old pipe from his pocket.

 

“Next week,” Severus answers, rubbing the back of his neck.  He’s glad he’s cut his hair short, the air is cool and refreshing on his skin.

 

He doesn’t tell Iain that there was not enough muggle money this week to buy the lard needed for the piecrust. Only the aurors can exchange his galleons, and Severus has no desire to inform them of the stash he has in his pantry.

 

“I’ll send the catch with the lad Tuesday,” Iain nods towards the front of the van as they finish loading Severus’ boxes. In the passenger seat Severus can see Tolstoy sleeping, just as he has done every Saturday since Iain started taking his wares to market.  Tolstoy never fails to recount how Saturdays with his grandfather fare when he sits for tea with Severus.

 

“Don’t forget a few pounds for yourself,” Severus adds, though Iain never takes it.

 

On his way back to the house, Severus checks the mail out of suspicious curiosity.  It’s empty, as Severus figured it would be at twenty past six.  He’s not sure whether to be relieved or annoyed.

 

……..

 

The next postcard comes on Sunday, and is distressingly accompanied by Harry Potter.  Severus is having a good day pain wise, but walks slowly up the path towards the mail box, his line of sight beyond the front gate as if he cannot see the boy. The man. For as scruffy and malnourished as he appears, it’s clear that Harry Potter has now become a man.  His hair is still unruly and jet black, his eyes hidden behind ridiculously large glasses, but he’s wrapped up in a stylish black pea coat that covers faded jeans and is topped off by a crimson and grey knit scarf.  There is an old leather attaché case clutched in his arms, as if he doesn’t want to chance the shoulder strap. Severus can’t help but think that if Potter got rid of those foolish glasses, that he would pass as an attractive university student.

 

“Potter. Leave,” Snape intones, manoeuvering around him to reach his post box.

 

“You do remember me,” Potter breathes, his hands shoved further into his pockets.

 

“Of course I do, you pestilential twit,” Severus snaps, slamming his post box shut. He turns to the gate and goes to walk back to his cottage, hoping that the ministry’s wards will keep Potter out.  He somehow knows they won’t.

 

“Wait!” Potter calls to his back, stepping closer to the gate but not passing in.  “Sir.”

 

Severus stops, and turns his head slightly to his left shoulder.  The last time Potter had called him sir had been at wandpoint in a courtroom.

 

“Do you remember that we were losing the battle? That we lost?”

 

Potter’s voice is quiet, but it carries on the morning wind.  His face is open, and Severus can see how worn down the boy is. His eyes are searching, almost pleading Severus to remember.

 

“I suppose I can spare enough tea even for you,” Severus finally says, leaving the gate open and walking down towards the cottage. He doesn’t need to look back to know Potter is following.

 

……….

 

Potter hangs his coat up on the hook on the wall next to the door, overtop of Severus’ thick black cloak, and drops his attaché case against the wall.  It is silent in the small kitchen as the pot on the stove boils – Severus busies himself measuring tea leaves into the rinsed out tea pot and Potter lets his eyes roam over the stone kitchen.  The cupboards, though small, are painted a clean olive colour and the wood countertop gives false warmth to the room. Severus has few pots, pans, and crockery, but there is a rather large apple grinder in the corner and a well-used steel candy thermometer sits in the cutlery tin.

 

“Are you really under house arrest?”

 

Severus doesn’t grant this stupid question a glare.

 

“Of course not, Potter. Poverty and a dilapidated cottage in the Orkneys is what I’d always dreamt of for retirement.”

 

“Well, but how are you allowed visitors?” Potter asks, deliberately not mentioning that he chose to visit.

 

“I am not,” Severus says, roughly placing the tea mug down on the wooden table. “Are you a fugitive, Mr. Potter?”

 

Potter has the nerve to look at him with a faint smile and his head cocked up to the side.

 

“I should be.”

 

Before Severus can ask just what the hell the boy is doing there, Potter interrupts him.

 

“Why am I able to be here, then?”

 

Severus gives him a shrewd look over his shoulder and yanks open the cupboards, looking for tea biscuits. It’s not exactly bare, but he is meticulously organized and the small amount of food is noticeable.

 

“No doubt I’ve insulted some god or another in a past life,” Severus closes the cupboard with a huff.

 

Potter laughs at this and sits back. “I meant the wards, Professor.”

 

“You shouldn’t be,” Severus sighs as he sits down and nods towards the box on the table near Potter.  Severus has placed it there due to lack of space, and he has yet to work up the energy to sift through what the ministry has sent.

 

“Check in there for biscuits. How you passed beyond the repelling wards on the front door is beyond me.”

 

“I can resist the imperius curse,” Potter says seriously, sipping his tea.

 

Severus blinks at him.

 

“Have you escaped from the asylum?” Severus leans back and places his mug on the table with satisfaction.

 

“No,” and this time Potter’s pained expression has no trace of humour whatsoever.  “I was released three months ago.”

 

There’s silence in the kitchen as they both eye the grinder on the counter. Potter scratching the back of his hand as if to fight something invisible, Severus trying to remember everything he’s seen in the Daily Prophet about the Boy Who Lived after the war.

 

“They sent you Victory Beans,” Potter finally says, holding up a bright red box.  _“Taste the victory, from the tip of your tongue to your very toes,”_ Potter mocks.

 

Severus gives him a look of disgust.

 

“Cheap sugar tokens to distract simple minds.  Trash them, Potter. I don’t want the damn candy and I don’t want the damn reminder.”

 

“Of the battle?” Harry asks, and he looks almost hopeful.

 

“Of the last twenty years,” Severus glares. “I’ve wasted half my life teaching dunderhead children and coddling the egos of some highly demented individuals. I’m now stuck under house arrest for the next five years, and I still have to put up with the likes of you.”

 

Harry makes a fist and comes within inches of slamming it down on the table.  Severus meets his stare, but he’s surprised to find it’s harder than it was before to stare down Potter. 

 

“Oh grow the fuck up, Severus Snape,” Harry growls.  “You martyred yourself, just like I did. Neither of us had much choice in how we were played, but the war is over now.  You’re stuck here for five years. You can go it alone, or you can have my company once in a while. Your choice.”

 

Potter is tense, his arm muscles strung tight and his jaw set firm.  His demand is not unreasonable, and to any normal person in Severus’ position it seems like an easy answer.  But Severus hasn’t had to guard himself from anyone in four months, and he can already tell that this Potter is not the smart-arse boy of last year.

 

“Why did you ask if I remember the battle, Potter?” Severus finally questions.

 

“Because it seems I was at a different fight than everyone else.”

 

The answer is quick coming, and though it sounds scripted, Severus knows it’s not. Before he realizes it, Potter is up and taking his mug to the sink.

 

“What are you blathering about?”

 

“After Nagini attacked you there was a break in the battle. A bunch of us stormed the forest, because we realized that Voldemort wasn’t fighting. He’d sent his death eaters to do the dirty look,” Harry answers, flipping on the kettle. “Out of that whole group, no one remembers what happened once we went into the forest.”

 

Harry brings him a hot cup of tea a few moments later, and his battered attaché case.  Severus notes that there are several full sheets of muggle notepaper filled with scribbles.  Potter has begun his research of the battle participants, and spreads out his sheets on the kitchen table.  He’s written out a timeline, from just before the battle to this week, though it’s not extremely detailed. Severus has always enjoyed a good mystery novel, and finds himself reading over the notes.

 

“It’s not that none of your comrades forget the battle, Potter,” Severus starts, holding Potter’s observations from speaking with Longbottom.

 

“I know,” Harry interrupts, running a hand under the collar of his shirt and absentmindedly rubbing his clavicle.  “When the aurors took memories for the investigations, they did just that. They took them.”

 

“Precisely,” Severus agrees, skimming through the notes on George Weasley. Everyone has the same fuzzy memories of that particular part of the battle, because the memory is missing and they can only remember references to it.  Everyone except Potter.

 

“Why were your memories not removed?”

 

Harry looks at him and blushes a bit as he smiles.

 

“I didn’t want anyone to know that my scar had been a horcrux.  And it occurred to me that I was still trying to put myself back together, and I didn’t want any pieces missing.”

 

“The ministry collected the memories of all of you on a summons. And you somehow managed to avoid the four aurors that were likely there to collect it?”

 

Harry shuffled his papers and grinned. “Rita Skeeter was trying to get an interview, and pissed off the nurses. They let me slip out the back door to go home, as I may have insinuated I’d been released.”

 

“Once again, Harry Potter proves that no amount of planning will ever replace sheer dumb luck,” Severus grumbles, but there’s no real malice to it.

 

“You must admit, I keep life interesting,” Potter laughs.  He stands and gathers up his papers. 

 

“See you tomorrow, Professor.”

 

“Potter,” Severus commands, stopping Harry at the front door.  “You don’t want my help. Do not come back.”

 

“Of course not, Professor,” Harry answers, opening the door.  “I just figured you could use the company.”

 

Potter leaves Severus sitting at his kitchen table with a cold mug of tea.  He knows without a doubt that Potter will return tomorrow, and that tonight he will not be able to sleep. Tonight his thoughts will be filled with the night that he’d give anything to forget.

 

………

 

It is raining the next day, and Severus throws a cracked plate at Potter when the boy pounds on his cottage door.  A plate is not as life threatening as a jar of cockroaches, apparently, as Potter lets himself in instead of running.  Severus sets Potter to work coring apples.  There is a large box of apples in the centre of the kitchen table, and a smaller bucket between them that is collecting the cored and quartered apples.  Severus is sipping hot chocolate and waiting for his muggle painkiller to kick in when he chooses his next words carefully.

 

“How many of us remember the entire battle of Hogwarts?”

 

It is the right thing to ask, as Potter gives him a wary smile.

 

“Properly? You and I. Perhaps an Unspeakable or two. The Minister of Magic, and McGonagall.”

 

“If memory serves correctly, I believe there were slightly more people present at the time,” Severus comments, and he watches calloused hands quarter apples with precision. When has the boy cultured such dexterity?

 

“An event not to be missed,” Harry agrees harshly, nearly slicing his finger.  “Though this investigation is of the battle and things leading up to it as well.” His tone turns mocking, and Severus can see a gleam of revulsion in Harry’s eyes near the end of the sentence.

 

“Of course it is,” Severus mutters.  “I find it very hard to believe you’ve not run these memory concerns past Granger yet.”

 

“She’s a bit distracted with Ron. He was cursed deaf near the end there.  The Burrow…well the Burrow was never a quiet home to grow up in. And now Ron has silence twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.”

 

During his time with the Order of the Phoenix, Severus had only the misfortune of being at the Burrow twice.  He doesn’t need more than ten seconds to imagine how sudden silence could be driving the Weasley boy crazy.

 

“Potter. What exactly is the ministry investigating?”

 

“You know. How deep their infiltration was, how badly the aurors screwed up, why so many kids ended up fighting,” Harry answers, refusing to make eye contact.  “They started right after the battle, while we were still in the hospital being checked over.”

 

“They’re still saying Voldemort lost, correct?” Severus asks wryly. 

 

“Yes, but you should hear the rumours,” Potter laughs.  “Did you know you almost died in the Shrieking Shack, of all places? Apparently I left you there to die after Nagini bit you.”

 

“Did you now?” Severus glares as he unconsciously runs his fingers over the scars on his thigh, the ones that are sending a dull pulsing throb down to his thighbone.

 

“Yeah. Fatal bite wound to the neck, spurting blood, no one to save you, no bezoar, no potions.” The mood in the kitchen has lightened considerably, despite the topic of conversation.

 

Severus scoffs at this and stabs an apple viciously. Potter looks up at him and blinks.

 

“Hey, you’re alive,” he sounds surprised at this. “Congratulations.”

 

Severus doesn’t know whether to hex him or laugh at him.

 

………

 

Later on that evening, Severus glances at the fridge on the way to the washroom and curses.  The two bright postcards are still stuck to the fridge door, and he now knows how Potter was able to find him. Ache was never the word, merely a phonetic spelling of the boy’s first initial. He’s still not exactly sure why Potter has appeared, though he has to admit to himself that the boy had grown up in the last year since they’d fully interacted.  Severus doesn’t count the time at the hospital in May, when aurors had arrived to arrest him and Potter had gone into a tirade about equal rights and trial regulations.

 

Severus stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, the small crack in the bottom right corner fitting right over the reflection of his shoulder blade.   He’d gotten his hair cut the second day he’d been at the cottage, and now it just reaches the top of his neck at the back, and is cut around his ears on the side.  Severus is rather pleased at the look, as it makes him appear younger than he actually is, and the shorter hair somehow doesn’t draw attention to his sallow skin and hollow cheeks. It also makes him feel less like a wizard, less dependant on the magic that has been severely restricted for him.  Severus finishes brushing his teeth and splashes cold water on his face, shivering as it hits him.  The towel rack is to his immediate right in the tiny washroom, and he wastes no time in drying off before the cold chills him too much.

 

Severus takes the day’s paper to the fireplace to be used as starter the next morning, and notices the article about Harry Potter.  Diagon Alley is coming back to life, but the hero of the day has yet to be spotted there. Severus is not surprised at this, as he is well aware of how uncomfortable the fame makes Potter feel. It was a sore point in school, and a target Severus hit often.

 

Though he’s often wondered where Potter gets his idiotic facts on some things, Severus remembers how dogged Potter was in his sixth year to uncover what Draco Malfoy had been up to.  That sort of tenacity is an annoying Gryffindor trait, but with Potter it’s usually with merit that he becomes concerned about something, likely inbred from Albus Dumbledore’s habit of keeping his soldiers in the dark.

 

Severus climbs his ladder and rolls himself into bed, arranging the blankets so he can prop his leg up.  The old iron wrought bed was supposed to be a slight against him, he figures, as the aurors who’d moved him to the cottage had seen the grand wooden furniture that Hogwarts favoured.  Severus however, quite likes his bed here, and has found an extra use for the tall bed frame. He’s tied a sling to the top of the railing, and slips the foot of his bad leg into it, relaxing back in bed.  The elevation helps some.

 

Sinking his head down into his feather pillow, he refuses to admit aloud how comforting it is to have another talkative person in the cottage. Even if it’s Potter who is the one visiting him, Severus still gets the satisfaction of knowing that to some people he still exists.

 

…..

 

The cottage Severus has been hidden away in is a muggle constructed one. It is outfitted with electric wiring (the bill of which is paid for by the ministry), it has the proper facilities, and it has a muggle washing machine in the outshed.  In addition to this, it has an un-insulated attic bedroom, a washroom with the window in the shower, a kitchen with a slanting floor, a hodge-podge of muggle furniture that is in various states of disrepair and no neighbours for a mile.  His property does have a sufficient amount of land though, and the snide auror who was part of the team that moved him had asked Severus what two vegetables or fruits he hated most.  With suspicious foresight that hadn’t steered Severus wrong in fifteen years, he named his two favourites.  This worked out to his advantage, as the orchard seems to produce an unrealistic amount of apples and pumpkins. 

 

 

 

Potter returns the next day, just before Tolstoy has left for the afternoon. There are twelve volleyball-sized pumpkins in Severus’ kitchen, and he is placing two halves of one in the oven to bake when there is a rather large boom from the front yard. Out the kitchen window he sees a dark figure land hard on the rocky hill that separates the apple orchard from the garden proper.

 

Tolstoy laughs and pretends to flap his arms like a bird. Severus offers the small boy a smirk before going to investigate the damage.

 

“Potter, what have you done now?” Severus says, stalking quickly up to where the young man lay groaning.

 

“I forgot the potatoes.”

 

Severus sweeps his eyes over the man, noting the wince as Harry moves to sit up. He appears to have hit his hip against a rock rather painfully.

 

“Would you care to explain how forgetting potatoes equals you learning how to fly?”

 

“I went to apparate to the store,” Harry shrugs, though he looks like he’s in a bit of pain.

 

“Idiot,” Severus mutters. “There are complex wards here.”

 

He stands back as Harry pulls himself up and wipes his dirty hands on his jeans.

 

“You cannot apparate on this property. Does the concept of house arrest mean nothing to you?” Severus asks gruffly, walking slowly as Harry limps back towards the cottage.

 

“Of course it does,” Harry grumbles, swinging a bag towards Severus.  “Take the bag, I brought dinner.”

 

Severus takes it gingerly and glances at it, closing his eyes at the sight of the fresh cut of steak wrapped up inside. 

 

“I hope you have the receipt,” he says wistfully.  It’s been a long time since he’s had good steak.

 

Harry nearly trips over a gnarled tree root that has snaked up by the stoop of the front door.

 

“I might. Why do I need one?” Harry asks, curiously.

 

Severus opens the door and notes that Tolstoy is still sitting quietly at the kitchen table, playing with the bucket of pumpkin seeds that he helped scoop out earlier.

 

“The wards around the perimeter of the property allow that any profit to be made by growth upon this land shall be mine. I can make use of any material thereabouts as well. Conversely, as I am a prisoner, the only freestanding items that may be brought onto the property are ones that have been paid for,” Severus answers.

 

He shoves Harry onto the uncomfortable couch and ignores the confused look. Instead, he rummages through the icebox until he can find a freezer package of peas, and hands it over to Harry.

 

“Did they give you a rule book or something?  That sounds rather convoluted.”

 

 Harry has closed his eyes, but he still appears to be in a bit of pain. The icepack has been wedged between the chesterfield arm and Harry’s hip, and Severus does not miss the grimace on Harry’s face as the coldness starts to work.

 

“What makes you think the rule book will be any simpler to understand?” Severus asks, a smirk on his face.  He remembers now why he enjoyed riling Potter up so much at Hogwarts.  There was something oddly pleasing about seeing the vein twitch under the boy’s right eye.

 

“Rus.”

 

Tolstoy has wandered into the living room, offering his watch up for inspection. He has washed the pumpkin guck off his hands and pays absolutely no mind to Harry’s staring eyes as he tells Severus exactly what he’s done there today. 

 

“Very well done,” Severus judges, and he gives Tolstoy an approving look. “I shall inform your grandfather you’ve earned five shortbread cookies.”

 

Severus leads Tolstoy out of the house and away from Potter, walking up the uneven garden path to the road.  Iain is just walking up the road to collect his grandson, his limp slighter today than usual. 

 

When Severus returns, he stops at the front corner of his house, where two large French doors run along almost the entire width of his small living room. Potter sits at the chesterfield still, in a pair of nice jeans, a knit jumper, and a collared shirt underneath.  He dresses well, and Severus admits to himself that it’s not the normal grungy fashion sense of a teenaged wizard.  Potter is poring over the incarceration papers, and next to him is his silly attaché case with his own mystery inside.  Making up his mind, Severus strides to the front door and enters. He will find out why Potter insists on visiting him.

 

“Still the silent guardian of damaged boys?” Harry asks, his voice emotionless yet measured as Severus walks past the entry and towards the kitchen.

 

Severus gives him a shrewd look.  “There is nothing wrong with Tolstoy.”

 

Harry looks up and doesn’t break eye contact.  “My mistake. His name isn’t really Tolstoy, is it?”

 

“Of course not,” Severus scoffs.  He leans against the wall that separates the washroom from the living room and nods to the bookcase near Harry.  “He spent his first day here thumbing through only my Tolstoy volumes.”

 

“A rather logical course of action for a nickname,” Harry smiles. It temporarily throws Severus off guard, as he is not accustomed to the boy smiling at him.

 

“Yes, well. As it appears you are going to be invading my household for a while longer, you may see to dinner. I expect it at six,” Severus orders, before stalking off for the table.

 

Potter spends the next hour and a half in the kitchen, reading over the thirty-page document the ministry provided Severus regarding his incarceration.  He alternates this reading with cooking dinner, chopping and peeling vegetables with abandon Severus hasn’t seen since he taught the boy potions in fifth year. 

 

Severus has a peaceful time of scooping pumpkin pulp out of the baked halves and using a muggle mixer to turn it into mash.  Severus eyes his carefully marked off Agatha Christie’s Poirot calendar, even though he already knows what is on the schedule for this week’s market produce.  He’s got the leftover applesauce and frozen apple pies from last week he can sell, as well as some fresh pumpkin pies he’ll make tomorrow.

 

Severus notes, as he walks to the pantry room to check on his stock, that Harry is now pacing in the living room.  Not quite with the same angry strides that Severus had used upon his first night at the cottage, but similar nonetheless.  The house smells delicious, the stew that Potter has made is simmering in the pot and there is fresh bread baking. 

 

In the pantry there is a clipboard hanging from a crooked nail in the wall to his immediate right, and Severus grabs it out of habit as he walks in.  The pantry has been set up much like the potions storage cupboard at Hogwarts was, ingredients sorted by their scientific classification.  Severus allows that this is perhaps an over kill for a pantry stocked with flour, lard, several types of sugar, baking soda, and other dried goods, but habits are both comforting and hard to break.

 

The living room is silent, and Severus ponders Potter’s presence as he goes through his checklist.  Butter needs replenishing soon. He doesn’t remember much of the final battle, as Voldemort had dispatched Nagini on him rather early in the evening.  Severus rubs his thigh absentmindedly as he checks the bags of piecrust weights. Not enough to be sufficient, but perhaps he can pick up a cheap package of dry beans. 

 

From what Severus can remember, Potter had been the one to ensure the Black family house elf was there to attend to any need of his that arrived. There had been a tense and very short conversation between them when Potter had removed his invisibility cloak, and Severus had been prepared to argue with Potter over what Dumbledore wanted him to know. He remembers the mass confusion and fighting in the castle as students tried to fend off death eaters, and he remembers that Nagini appeared in the headmaster’s office not long after.  Severus shivers, but he’s not convinced that the cold evening’s air is not partially responsible.  The sun must be setting, as Severus has come to realize that once it does, the evenings in his little dell get chilly very fast.  The list in his hand is neatly marked off with ingredients, and a cost estimation is hastily calculated at the bottom.  He should come in well under budget.

 

A spasm shoots through his leg, fire hot jolts through the twisted muscle of his thigh that the venom destroyed. Severus crashes to the floor, grunting and clenching his leg.  He sucks back air through his teeth in an effort to not cry out, and scrunches his eyes shut.  He remembers a terrible pain in his leg, blinding and dizzying.  The demented house elf appearing immediately and killing the damn snake. In the background noise he can hear Voldemort taunting Potter, something about hostages and people dying.  He can feel blood, warm blood over his fingers as he tries to hold his leg.  Voldemort’s taunts going unanswered, in what Severus has been told is the time that Harry has chosen to sacrifice himself. 

 

Severus looks to his left and decides that he should purchase additional baking paper as well. The door to the pantry is pushed open wider and Potter stands there, hands flailing uselessly at his sides before he leans over and helps Severus to his feet again. Severus slaps him away and summons his cane, adding the spell to his mental list for the day.  Potter leads him to the kitchen, where the steak stew has found its way to the table.  He still cannot figure out why Potter has come to him, as Severus’ memories of the final battle are rather useless.

 

… 

 

The stew is surprisingly palatable.  Potter, in a fit of common decency, doesn’t ask how his leg is and doesn’t mention the cane. 

 

“Potter,” Severus starts, after swallowing a mouthful of hot stew.  “Explain your presence at my cottage.”

 

“I made dinner,” Potter answers, and there is a small glint in his eyes.

 

“My magic may be limited, but I am not above bodily throwing you off my property,” Severus threatens in a low voice, pointing his spoon at Harry as if it’s a dagger.

 

Potter laughs, and it’s a deep, rich laugh.  It reminds Severus of October ten years earlier, when Potter has not yet come to Hogwarts, and Severus still enjoys dinners in the hall with his colleagues.

 

“Fine,” Potter says, holding up his hands in peace. “I need to know why no one remembers what really happened.  I need to know why I let Voldemort kill me, why I gave up everything to end the war, if people were going to pretend it was nothing.”

 

“You want validation?” Severus asks, his eyebrows taught with confusion.

 

“No.”

 

Severus sips his stew as he waits for Potter to put his thoughts together.  At Hogwarts he would have demanded answers from the boy immediately, but his Hogwarts has been destroyed and Severus finds himself oddly hesitant to push Potter out of his company this early in the evening.

 

“Two weeks ago some bloke from the Diagon Alley Shop Keeper’s Association invited me to the unveiling of a statue they’d had put up in the middle of the market.  It’s some hideous thing in bronze, me with a phoenix perched on my shoulder, striking down a much smaller man cowering before me with my wand.  It’s bloody ugly,” Harry asserts, at the grimace on Severus’ face.

 

“The man is supposed to be Voldemort, but it looks nothing like him. There’s going to be a plaque there too, a memorial for those who died in the final battle.  The man told me there’d be pamphlets and speeches of my great heroism.”

 

“They’re salesmen, Potter. What else did you expect?” Severus asks, ripping apart some bread.  Steam rises from the inside, and the butter he spreads on it melts immediately.

 

“Not to hear that everyone who died at the battle was apparently killed by the killing curse. Rather nice and neat, don’t you think?  They still won’t say Voldemort’s name, and the man mentioned that if I’d come and say something, they’d give me a 30% discount for life at any shop there.”

 

“Society moves on fast,” Severus says, but he’s staring out the window and not at Potter.  A bit faster than he’d expected, but nonetheless.

 

“Haven’t they ever heard the saying that you are doomed to repeat history if you ignore it?  If everyone thinks this battle ended without the appalling mess of war, how quickly do you think they’ll come to action if another dark wizard rises up?”

 

Potter is interesting to watch when he gets bent out of place by something.  His eyes turn darker, and his hair seems to spark with injustice.

 

“You can rant about this all you want, Potter, but it still sounds as if you want recognition,” Severus warns him, as he stands and puts his bowl in the sink.

 

“I don’t,” Potter exhales, and puts his own plate in the sink. He turns on the water and takes over the cleaning task.  “I just want to know that I didn’t offer myself up to die for a waste. I want people to remember my friends, what they suffered for our freedom. I want people to know that I’m…I’m not a hero.  That’s why I’m here, Snape. I belong under lock up too.”

 

“That’s rubbish,” Severus immediately scoffs.  “I’ve pretended to be a loyal death eater for almost twenty years. What on earth could you have done to necessitate imprisonment?”

 

“I killed fourteen people,” Harry deadpans, never taking his eyes off the sink.  Severus can tell, however, from the tension across his back that the discussion is over.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Potter returns for lunch the next day and brings two receipts with him. One for the stew ingredients the night before, and one for the lasagna he has brought today. Severus checks them over, noting that they’re extremely well done forgeries for the grocers in town, and he files them in his tin.

Severus has been making apple butter, and it takes him ten minutes to clear the table with enough room for them to eat. He finishes as Potter pulls the lasagna out of the oven, and Severus stares at the man.

“Potter. Why did you assume I was not actually a death eater?”

“What?” Harry asks distractedly. He’s easing a corner piece out of the pan and curses as his thumb hits the hot glass.

“You came back to Hogwarts on the eve of the battle, and for the first time in your pitiful little life, listened to me when I told you what to do.”

“Yeah.” Two plates are delivered on the table, and Potter fetches some milk from the fridge. Severus watches his hand tighten on the fridge door when he sees how empty it is.

“I could have been a triple agent. You took a great risk listening to me, I could have sent you directly to Voldemort,” Severus says with a smug look. He is actually curious if there’s a reason why Potter trusts him, instead of just blind Gryffindor faith.

“But you did, didn’t you? Anyway I’ve known you’ve been against Voldemort for a while,” Harry grins, taking a bit of his lunch. Severus notes that Harry doesn’t phrase it as ‘on our side.’

“And how is that?” Severus grumbles. The lasagna is ridiculously good compared to the freezer pack premade dinner that Severus had been able to afford.

“You weren’t there in the graveyard when he came back. Apparently only Voldemort actually believed you wanted to remain at Hogwarts to reassure Dumbledore. You chose the only way to teach legilimency that would not end with you leaving a trace of your magic in my mind for Voldemort to find,” Harry ticks each point off with his fingers. “You left me your potions book in sixth year, and you were the one to lead me to Gryffindor’s sword.”

“I did not leave you my book,” Severus immediately denies.

“Yeah, sure,” Potter interrupts with a cheeky grin. “You left your old potions book, with all its dead useful spells and potion additions in the margins, for just anyone to find.”

Tobias Snape had taught Severus three simple rules when he was a small boy, and they’d served him very well throughout the years. Act surprised, show concern, and don’t admit fuck all. And so, Severus sits at the table, impassively staring at Potter, not saying a thing.

“Thanks for that, by the way.”

Severus tilts his head in recognition. “And the sword? There was no way you should have known who was leading you to it.”

“And I wouldn’t have,” Harry agrees. “But I knew what your patronus was.”

“Bollocks!” Severus snaps, feeling suddenly like a fool. “No one save the headmaster has seen my patronus in years.”

“Right. Not since you were in school, perhaps.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Remus Lupin taught me how to conjure a patronus. He told me about the patronuses he’d seen, and who they belonged to,” Harry answered, pausing before taking a bite. “He also mentioned a funny little fact he knew, that you have the same doe patronus as my mother.”

“Bloody Lupin,” Severus mutters.

“Worked out in your favour,” Harry warns, pointing his knife at Severus. “Not even I’m stupid enough to follow a patronus I don’t recognize.”

Severus blinks quickly, and for a second it’s apparent on his face that that is exactly what he’d thought at the time.

“Let’s change the subject. I’ve some questions.” 

“As do I.”

“Your wand only works on this property.” Harry says, wrapping stringing mozzarella cheese around his fork.

“Yes.” Severus answers, glaring at him. The glare has never been all that effective on Potter.

“But you get 4 hours off site per week. Does your wand work in public?”

“No. And any magic done here is registered as being mine, so keep your wand to yourself and resist the urge to act like an ignorant baboon with a stick.”

“You wouldn’t live like this…” Harry postulates, gently looking over to the window of the room. His gaze is not focused on Severus’ belongings, but instead on the window that badly needs repainting and a replacement glass tile piece.

“It’s all muggle furniture, Potter.” Severus said, feeling suddenly defensive of the little cottage he’d been allotted. “No magic can be done to improve the house, and anything would revert back at midnight regardless.”

“Who are you, Cinderella?” Potter asks, staring at him. His lasagna is almost gone and he is attempting to spear the tiny pieces of meat with his fork.

“More likely that than you a prince charming,” Severus responds dryly. He is a bit slower to eat his lunch, as it is nice to have food made by someone else. Severus doesn’t allow himself to ponder about how domestic it feels to him.

“So you can’t magic anything in here better. What’s the bit in the report about the weekly list?”

Severus swirls his bit of milk around in his glass. He’d like wine with his lasagna, but it wasn’t on the grocery list last week.

“Everything that is brought into this cottage is catalogued on a list. The auror that visits checks over the list for suspicious articles.”

He narrows his eyes at Potter, and notices that the boy has a line of stubble growing on his chin.

“I am quivering with excitement to see how you’ll show up.”

Harry looks momentarily panicked, and he’s got a small bit of basil stuck to his lower lip.

“When? Will they know I’ve been here?”

“It is refreshing to realize that you still act before thinking of consequences. The auror comes Friday.”

Severus pushes away from the table and limps to the sink, where he washes his dishes. His leg has a residual ache in it from the damp morning, and the bitter air creeping in through the cracked pane is not helping. Once finished, Severus pulls a hot water bottle from a cabinet beside the sink and spells it full of hot water. It’s his second spell of the day, but he doesn’t care. He shuffles slowly to the living room, placing the hot bottle on his thigh and smoothing it over the ache. Potter can do his own dishes.

“Wait, you told me yesterday that you babysit Tolstoy once a week, don’t you? Haven’t they ever noticed him here before?”

Harry is now at the sink, but the cottage is tiny and the worn chair Severus is sitting in is only fifteen feet from the furthest point in the cottage.

“Tolstoy is a muggle,” Severus answers, his eyes closed and his concentration on keeping silent as his muscles slowly unknot themselves. He can hear Potter put a full pot of water on the stove to boil.

“Oh. How does he get past the anti-muggle ward I felt on the door?” 

“He is autistic. The ward means nothing to him, because his brain simply does not register it. Enough with the questions.”

“Alright. I’ve something to show you, anyway,” Harry shrugs.

The attaché case is brought forth and Severus eyes it carefully. It looks fuller than yesterday. Potter is rummaging through the kitchen drawer and pulls forth a set of tongs, which he uses to withdraw a letter from the bag.

Potter places the letter on the small coffee table and drops the tongs in the sink to wash later. He looks at the letter as if it’s cursed, and for a moment, Severus wonders if it actually is.

“Are you daft enough to have brought dark magic into my cottage?” Severus growls, not recognizing the writing on it.

“No, I don’t want to smudge the fingerprints on it,” Harry answers.

Severus gives him a blank look and sits forward to read the letter. It’s short, and written in the falsely polite tone of someone brought up in a high-class wizarding family.

Mr Potter,

Our heartfelt congratulations for your success at the Battle of Hogwarts. As a token of our appreciation, we at Diagon Alley have arranged for you to have first class transportation to the unveiling of the war heroes statue. This shall take place in the main square of Diagon Alley, on the 2nd of October, 1998. As discussed earlier, we welcome your presence and patronage back to our humble shops, and we should like to extend a lifetime 30% discount for any purchases made in our shops.

The limousine will collect you at 9:30 am sharp; do inform us if you have relocated from Grimmauld Place.

Regards,

W. Terrence Cardogan

DASKA.

“Grimmauld Place is supposed to still be under fidelius. It is to be a safe house, that the general public does not know the location of,” Severus states in a deadly voice, conveying his annoyance and disapproval in one breath.

“I know,” Harry answers, and his eyes look troubled. “The ward fell last fall. And I’m not living there.”

“An ounce of brain still left in you, then,” Severus sneers.

“Yeah, imagine that,” Harry continues, rubbing his shoulder near his neck. It seems to be a nervous action, and Severus watches curiously. “I think I’m being followed.”

“By whom?” The hair on Severus’ arms stands up, a feeling he’s not had in a few months. He’d been followed by death eaters his year as headmaster, ones sent by Voldemort to make sure he was still faithful, and ones not sent by him to catch him being a traitor.

“Not death eaters. I almost want to say aurors, but…”

“But whomever they are, you’ve merely led them to the Burrow each night. I hope for the sake of your life you managed to be more discreet coming here,” Severus says, his voice hard and his gaze narrowed.

“The Burrow? I’m not staying at the Burrow.” Harry’s laugh is bitter. “I’m staying at random bed and breakfasts in southern Ireland.”

“You mean the great Harry Potter doesn’t have his own manor house somewhere?” A glint is back in Severus’ eyes, and he feels almost energetic.

“Oh piss off. When was I supposed to go out and get a house? I’ve been a little busy over the years.” Harry retorts, almost spitting. He’s pacing again, holding the bundle of papers in his hand and wrinkling them.

“I suppose you have been,” Severus concedes in an even tone, watching Harry very closely. He seems to be itching with agitation.

“You suppose. Dumbledore trained me to be everything I needed to be for the battle. You can’t tell me he gave a single thought to the future after the war,” Harry says, his voice rising but his face not carrying through true anger. Just frustration as he points around the cottage. “You can’t tell me he gave a damn about what would happen to you.”

“And what are you going to do about it, Potter?” Severus is annoyed and feels like flinging the hot water bottle at him. Severus had realized the bitter truth of Dumbledore’s lack of foresight earlier, but in all honesty he’d not expected to survive the war himself.

“Take up my cause like a noble little Gryffindor? Demand your trial for the people you killed? No one remembers it, as you said earlier, so in a way you’ve gotten away with the perfect crime.”

Harry’s face loses most of its colour and Severus ponders that he perhaps went a bit too far.

“How did you expect to survive the winter?” Harry suddenly asks, and the question throws Severus off kilter. He thought of his produce business, of the fruits and vegetables he’d grown and canned for himself, the meager wages he earned at the market, and the possibility of tutoring one or two of the village children in his four-hour window.

“Thriftily,” Severus answers. He had calculated back in August that he’d not have enough money to sustain himself for the winter, not without going into his stash.

“There you see, then,” Harry concludes. “I’m going to figure out a way to trick the wards. You’ll not starve.”

“This is your life’s mission now? Surely you could be put to better use, propagating more Weasleys,” Severus says, his tone condescending as if Potter has suggested a brewing mastery with him. Severus has never been comfortable accepting help; it is a trait he knows is direct from his father.

Potter gives him a pained look.

“The last place I’d be welcome is there.”

“What makes you think you’re welcome here?”

This stops Potter short. Severus’ cottage is P shaped, the stem of the letter is his tiny living room, and the round bit is where his kitchen, washroom, and ladder are. Potter is there now, searching through the bowl of apples on the table before selecting the right one. Severus doesn’t push for an answer, but he won’t let Potter leave without one. He comes back into the living room, rubbing the bottom of his neck where it meets his shoulder. Severus notices that his jeans are slightly dirty, and the muscles under his shirt are far more defined than Severus ever thought they would be.

“I don’t expect to be welcomed here. But I need your help. I need to know what’s happening. I need to know I’m not the only one who is horrified about the war.”

“You hated me at Hogwarts,” Severus says, crossing his arms.

“Yes. My potions professor was a git.” 

There is only one other chair in the living room. It’s battered and some of the stuffing is coming out of the arm, but Potter perches himself in it, being careful not to sit back too fast lest he hit his head on the bookcase behind him.

“But I think I might get along better with Severus Snape.” Harry has his head turned up, and his eyes regard Severus critically. There’s dirt under his nails, his sideburns are cut unevenly, and Severus oddly wonders if Potter shaves them himself, or if he gets them trimmed.

“Perhaps you might. I will help with your little mystery, Potter. But it won’t be for free.”

“Nothing good in life is, sir,” Harry smiles, and it’s a small genuine one.

Potter stalks off and outside, where he spends the next four hours weeding the garden and harvesting apples. Severus sets himself up back at the kitchen table, where he mixes spices on autopilot. His biggest pot is on the stove element, and it’s half full with applesauce.

Potter has yet to tell him what exactly happened in the Forbidden Forest during the battle. It is quite clear that he remembers every single moment, and from the murderer statement, that something went horribly wrong. Then again, the headmaster’s instructions hadn’t been all that pleasant to begin with. 

Severus finishes stirring the spice mix into the pot and covers most of it with a lid. The apple butter will need hours to simmer, so he retreats to the living room again and goes over Potter’s paperwork. Pulling down a scrap notebook from his bookcase and a muggle biro from the narrow desk he has against the wall, Severus begins to count the dead.

…..

“How’d you learn to grow pumpkins?” Potter asks as he comes back in from the cold. He’s just finished putting several baskets of apples in the outshed.

“They come from seeds, Potter. Nature knows what it is doing.”

“That’s not what I meant. You make things with the apples and the pumpkins, and you can them as well.” He moves to the stove and lifts the lid of the pot, inhaling the apple butter steam that rises. “Mmm.”

“My father was the fourth son of a farmer,” Severus says, watching to see if offering some information will get Potter to share in return.

“But you grew up in Spinner’s End…” Potter is puzzled, and he’s thrown himself into the kitchen chair.

“The fourth son, Potter. He was raised learning how to manage a farm he’d never inherit,” Severus explains, his voice cold. It had always been a sore point in their household, especially when his eldest uncle had lost the farm due to gambling debts.

“Oh.”

Potter twirls his wand on the table, not using it but drawing random symbols with it. He seems calmer than earlier, when he’d stormed out after lunch.

“Have you figured out what you want in return yet?”

Severus has a list of seven things already, a list that sits neatly folded in the pocket of his khaki work trousers. He says nothing, however, merely smiling at Potter with an altogether malevolent smile that he’s pleased to note still makes Potter nervous.

…

The fire in the grate starts to die around nine thirty. Evening outside of Kirkwell is swift and crisp. A slight peat scent permeates the air and Severus starts thinking of his bed with his many threadbare blankets, surprisingly comfortable despite the restrictions. Severus takes a good look at his unusual guest, and notices the black circles under the eyes. He knows that Harry has not been sleeping well, knows that Harry has been followed by someone, and has naught but an impersonal inn to return to. The attaché files are filled with the latest news surrounding Harry’s closest friends, none of whom remember past the point of trooping into the Forbidden Forest. Severus is aware of the weight of being the only witness to human atrocities.

“You may stay the night here, Potter.” Severus says, standing up with as much grace as he normally had possessed at Hogwarts. There is a slight tremble in his hand as he puts his book carefully away, but Potter doesn’t notice and his gait is perfect.

“Brilliant.” Potter answers, and the sincerity in his eyes convey more than just a thanks for having a place to crash. 

Severus watches him for a moment as he removes his jumper and rolls it up like a pillow. The air is chilly outside tonight, it has likely dipped below ten degrees, and though there is a fire banked in the fireplace Severus knows that past midnight the house settles cold. 

“There is a price,” Severus interrupts, still watching as Potter reaches for his cloak and spreads it out like a cover. “I’ve no blankets to spare. The ministry has a funny definition of necessity and I’ve not made room in the budget to purchase another,” Severus snaps as the boy scrunches himself up on the too small couch and pulls the cloak this way and that to cover himself.

“That’s fine,” Potter says, looking disturbingly accustomed to sleeping under similar arrangements.

“You may stay, but you must tell me, in detail, how you became a murderer.”

Haunted eyes briefly flash up at him, before Potter turns away and snuggles into the couch on his side.

“C’n I tell over breakfast?” Potter asks, pulling off his glasses and dropping them to the floor.

Severus doesn’t answer as he slowly climbs the ladder for the night.

……..

Severus has a three-piece washroom, and it’s located under his bedroom. It’s small, with one tiny window inconveniently placed in the shower corner. It’s utilitarian and plain, and without a bathtub Severus needs to sit on an old plastic chair under the hot spray to get any relief for aching muscles. It also has a possessed toilet.

It’s not actually possessed, Severus just hasn’t bothered to go to the hardware store in town and get the replacement flapper. As such, the toilet flushes itself at random, but most noticeably around 2 am. Severus knows it has woken them both, because he is huddled under his blankets in an effort to keep warm, and he can hear Potter downstairs tossing and turning on the chesterfield. It’s the restless half sleep of someone who is just slightly too cold to drift off, and searches in vain for the right angle of the blanket to solve the problem.

“Potter,” Severus growls, knowing his voice carries in the tiny cottage. “Get up here.”

A messy head peeps over the edge of the ladder a moment later, but Severus is huddled in bed and cannot see.

“It’s cold,” Potter says unnecessarily, and Severus can hear him removing his jeans. He briefly applauds the logic in the boy (and ignores the idiotic statement), for if Potter keeps his full kit on he’ll be freezing when he gets out of bed in the morning.

Severus keeps his back to the middle of the bed and concentrates on the sloping attic ceiling in front of him as Potter slips under the covers. He too turns, until they are touching only back-to-back, and it’s finally warm.

“They don’t stop you from fixing the place up the muggle way,” Harry mumbles into his cloak-turned-pillow, his voice not carrying but still being caught by Severus.

“Me and what work crew?” Severus snaps back waspishly. He’s exhausted and unwilling to admit how refreshing it is to spend time around another human after three months of near solitude.

He waits a moment for the response, which never comes. It seems that the boy has fallen right to sleep, and Severus is surprised to find himself slipping off very shortly after.

…

Severus wakes gradually, the blue tinged attic room providing enough soft light for him to know it’s morning. It is barely six-thirty, but as Severus stretches under the blankets he makes a mental list of things to prepare for market on Saturday, and he notes that the bed is much warmer than it usually is. He turns to his left and scrutinizes the sleeping figure. Potter sleeps in a defensive position, on his side with the covers pulled completely up over his shoulders, and two fisted hands resting under his chin.

Severus had resigned himself to a piss-poor sleep after inviting Potter to share the warmth, but he is surprised to find himself no worse for wear than the day before. His leg isn’t aching at the moment, and Severus wonders if it has anything to do with the heat. He sits up and rises from bed, throwing on a muggle knit jumper over his sleep shirt and finding a pair of thick socks to wear as well. His pajama pants are thick enough to keep drafts from his legs in the kitchen.

“Where goin’?” Potter doesn’t even bother to open his eyes.

“Breakfast. You have ten minutes.”

“Neh. Sleep in,” Potter burrows into the blankets even more so, which Severus had not thought possible.

“Get up, boy. I must be in town for 8.”

………….

Potter barely misses hitting his head on the rafter above the last step of the ladder. Severus is not much of a morning person either, so he says nothing. The bathroom is small and just off the kitchen behind the ladder, and Severus stares out the kitchen window with his coffee while he ignores Potter’s washroom noises. 

The grass looks wet outside, and there’s several birds sitting on the roof of Severus’ shed, their heads tucked into their warm wings. They’re standing seemingly at random, but Severus can see that they’re standing the shade of the yew tree. It looks like it will rain in short order. He makes a mental note to plot out some space in the garden for a good spot to plant corn in the early spring. Tobias Snape had taught his son the lessons of his own youth, and for all his time spent wielding magic with his hands, Severus always remembers his dad telling him that from the tip of his index finger to his first knuckle was the depth for planting peas. To his second knuckle was for planting corn.

“It’s a lot to farm by yourself,” Potter says, pouring himself some coffee. His clothing is fairly rumpled, but his eyes are bright and he’s brushed his hair. The day’s old facial scruff makes him look older than Severus remembers him to be.

“My galleon press is locked up in the dungeons,” Severus deadpans. He’s missed having someone to spar with verbally, and it appears as if the boy has finally moved past the point of jumping to defensiveness.

Now Harry Potter just smiles. Severus takes two pumpkin scones out of the oven and places them on a plate. His leg is doing well today, and he walks around the kitchen with confidence and ease.

“How many of you were in the forest?”

“Seven of us in my group,” Potter answers, and he’s all business. Severus likes the grown up version of Potter much better than the student one.

“You, Granger, Weasley, Weasley…?” The scone has steam rising from it, and it’s still soft as he tears it apart.

“Ginny, Ron, Hermione, Me, Neville, Luna, and George,” Potter reels the names off without a second breath.

Just one twin. Had the other been killed already? Severus still hasn’t a good time line of that night.

“Why had you gone to the forest?”

“That time? I went to fight,” There is tension in Potter’s voice, and Severus wonders what is behind that thought. The boy had been trained to fight since he was eleven, but Severus hadn’t detected that level of underlying anger in his voice before regarding the topic.

“There were more death eaters than I had any idea existed.”

Severus closes his eyes at this. He knew of close to one hundred while he was standing in as headmaster, but he’d feared that the Dark Lord had recruited many more.

“You were afraid,” Severus knows the exact fear of facing the same group of people.

“I’ve been fucking terrified since I was eleven,” Harry glares. He’s got a few crumbs in the corner of his mouth, and Severus can’t help but think it makes him look very human.

“So what made you decide to go through with it?” They’ve only got an hour before Severus needs to leave for his appointment at the doctor in town, but he needs the bits and pieces before he can figure anything out. And he desperately wants to know what happened that night.

“Draco Malfoy did,” Harry responds softly. The daylight is just bright enough for Severus to see that the shadows playing on Harry’s skin go much deeper.

“I see,” Severus says, and it’s a little harder to swallow than he’d thought. Draco Malfoy had been a persistent thorn against his side since the boy was eight years old, but he’d never wished him a gruesome end. “Was he made an example of?”

“In a way,” Harry answers, and now he’s playing with his mug, anything to not let Severus see the guilt in his eyes. “His parents were thrown to the werewolves. Literally.” 

The promised rain starts softly and Snape knows he should shut the upstairs window, but he cannot bring himself to move. Not until he knows what happened.

“It was then Draco switched?” Severus asks, trying not to imagine Lucius’ dignified and snobby speech turning to anguished screams.

“Draco never switched sides,” Harry scoffs, but the laugh is anything but amused. “Voldemort forced him to choose. Either become a werewolf, or die by them like his parents.”

Severus grips his own mug hard, the hot coffee providing no warmth to his shaking fingers.

“Did you know you can’t cast the killing curse on yourself?” Harry asks, looking up and meeting Severus’ eyes.

Green connects with black, and Severus knows now that this war was never black and white.

“Yes, I did know.”

Harry nods, but doesn’t ask for details. Details that Severus will never give.

“He tried. He looked at what was left, and he tried. Voldemort laughed at him and called for the wolves to come in.”

“They didn’t…” Severus’ stomach turns and he pushes the coffee away.

“No. We were there, horrified. We…it was us. He didn’t suffer.”

“Who was it?” Severus demands, and he remembers the guilt from killing Albus Dumbledore. Not quite a murderer, but not an innocent either.

“Ron,” Harry exhales, and he takes a long drink of his coffee. Severus wonders if he should offer whiskey instead.

“I should thank him for showing mercy to an enemy in times of war,” Severus says, though it’s partially to himself.

“You mean mercy to another schoolmate. We were just teenagers,” Harry corrects. Severus merely nods in agreement.

“You can’t anyway. Ron doesn’t remember doing it.”

“How can he not remember? Werewolves are not known for their table manners, any encounter with them is bound to be memorable.”

“It’s part of the memory that was taken.”

“Hmm. And Miss Weasley? Does she finally think you’re heroic enough now for her?”

Severus is unprepared for Harry’s mug to be slammed down on the table, the contents sloshing over and spilling. He has only read the barest news in the Prophet, and though it has been kept under wraps, the fact that Harry Potter is now single does not go unnoticed by anyone.

“She chose not to remember anything of Voldemort. Not the final battle, not the Carrows, not Umbridge, nor when he possessed her in her first year. So no, Snape. I’m not heroic enough for her. My girlfriend went into the hospital after the battle for some peace of mind, and she came out not remembering who I was at all.”

Severus sees the defeat in his eyes, but doesn’t comment. He’s seen it often enough in his own mirror.

“So there you have it. Draco Malfoy’s death was the catalyst. That was when my friends discovered the value of mercy, Ginny decided she couldn’t handle the bad men and scared little boys anymore, and when I decided I’d had enough. I didn’t give a damn about the sacrifice. I was done.”

“And in the end,” Severus continues, talking more so to himself than Harry, “it didn’t matter whether you sacrificed yourself for them or for you. You still won.”

“Did I?” Harry asks, running a ragged hand through his messy hair. It’s damp and Severus can see goose bumps on Harry’s skin. He resists the ridiculous urge to hold the boy’s hand in his own and warm it up.

“I went there to die, and spoke to Dumbledore in the in between part. In Purgatory.”

The kitchen chairs are unforgiving; indeed Harry shifts uncomfortably as he tells his tale. But Severus never suggests moving, as he refuses to allow the war into his living room and he carries his mother’s habit of seeking refuge in the kitchen.

“You encountered Dumbledore whilst unconscious?” Severus asks, and he has little doubt that the event actually happened.

“I don’t think I was unconscious. I think I was half dead,” Harry responds, his brows furrowed in thought.

“Did he speak? Or was he silent in his own infuriating way?” Severus finally bites out, wondering why he suddenly is interested in the chance at forgiveness.

“Oh, he spoke,” Harry confirms, and there is a bitterness to his voice now. “He explained what the sacrifice had done, and how Voldemort would be mortal if I chose to go back. Or that I could go on and finally meet my parents, see Sirius again, know what it was like to have a family. I could hear them, Snape. I could hear my mum and dad.”

Severus exhales slowly. It’s been seventeen years since he last spoke to Lily. During the war, when Severus was just hanging on by a thread, he often wondered how strongly he was hallucinating her friendship.

“And what about your friends, Potter? Did you spare one thought of how your friends would react to your death?” He’d hated the child at Hogwarts; hated how everyone had heaved the weight of the world onto his shoulders. But Severus knows now that had Potter died, the small sliver of victory he feels would be even further tainted.

“Of course I did,” Potter glares, “but it didn’t matter. They had each other, and their families. I knew they’d be fine. I was finally going to meet my family.”

“And? Gryffindor bravery gave out at the last second?”

“Don’t you get it, Snape? I chose to die. To stay dead. And Dumbledore smiled, and twinkled, and sent me back to hell.”

Severus stares at Harry’s hands as he drums his fingers on the table.

“To the forest,” Severus whispers, but he’s not watching Harry anymore. He’s imagining how Harry pulled himself to his feet again.

“Yes. I woke up with pain ripping through my body, lying in cold mud on the forest floor, thirty death eaters surrounding me. It only got worse from there,” Harry says, standing and moving to the sink to put the mug away.

“You wanted to know how I became a murderer. That’s how.”

Severus nods as he finishes his breakfast. Harry may have woken surrounded by death eaters, but Severus is rather certain that their deaths are not the ones Potter feels accountable for. At this point of the night, Severus had been under the care of the house elf, far away from the battlefield.

“I’ll see you later,” Harry mumbles, standing by the door. It’s not quite phrased as a question, but Severus hears the inquisition regardless.

“Bring dinner.”

With a nod, Harry slips out the door quickly, the footsteps of a man accustomed to beating a silent retreat.

Severus’ mind is reeling with information, anger barely hidden under the layer of shock from hearing the truth. Albus Dumbledore had often played each side to his own hand, but to have chosen death, chosen family, and have it snatched away…Severus stands and moves to the stove, stirring and checking the apple butter he’d left simmering on low the entire night. It was almost ready, and the cottage smelt pleasantly like apple pie. Severus cannot appreciate the smell, instead he is concentrating on what waking up to the scent of dirt, peat, and fear is like.

…

The first time Severus sees Potter naked he is entirely unprepared and ends up spilling juice down his front. He stands and moves to the living room window, where he sees Harry Potter running like a mad man down his front path, bundle of something clutched in his hand and a moronic grin on his face. It’s cold, barely fifteen degrees out, and the idiot’s genitals are bouncing between his thigh and belly like an elephant with allergies. Severus moves to the kitchen, putting on the kettle and fishing an extra house robe out of the basket by the washroom.

“I brought you fish!” The man says, as he leaps into the warm kitchen and holds up the brown wrapped package. Severus raises one eyebrow, and notes the blush that trails down Potter’s face, down to the dark trail of hair around his navel.

If Potter doesn’t care about covering, Severus will not make a point of avoiding his gaze.

“And this somehow caused the destruction of your clothing?” Severus tosses him the robe and is almost annoyed when Potter effortlessly catches it with his left hand.

“Well, no. You said the wards register everything that comes onto your property. I figured an extra set of clothes would be strange.”

Severus stares at him and takes a moment to figure out what the hell he’s talking about. 

“You wear the clothing out when you leave. Therefore it’s not residing here, and is taken off the list. Idiot.” 

Harry bristles at the insult, and the good mood he arrived in evaporates almost instantaneously.

“How am I supposed to know how it works? I’ve never been under house arrest before.”

Harry throws the fish down on the counter and jerks open one of the kitchen drawers. It’s slightly too big for the opening, and makes an ear-grating noise when yanked forward.

“No? What did you call your time with those muggle relatives of yours?” Severus sneers, stalking over to the fridge and pulling out some asparagus. He works quickly as he washes and snaps the lower stems off the asparagus. Harry works silently beside him, nudging Severus with his elbows whilst he marinates the salmon. 

“Slave labour,” Harry replies moments too late to be a witty comeback. He almost speaks too quietly for Severus to hear him.

Severus reaches over Potter’s messy hair and yanks open the cupboard, nearly beaning him in the forehead. 

“Complaints for that can be left at the grave.” 

Potter flinches and Severus feels more like his old self. The salmon is thrust into the oven and Potter turns away, slamming cutlery down on the table. Severus is holding the plates in his hand and he watches with curiosity as Potter sets the knife and fork down on the wrong sides.

“Leave if you can’t handle it, Potter. Don’t let the door hit your arse on the way out.”

Harry turns and stares at him, and Severus for some reason feels the need to brace himself. This man somehow defeated Voldemort. Severus doesn’t yet know how, but he certainly understands the kind of desperation needed to commit murder.

“I spoke to Hermione today,” Harry says instead, and he sits down at the tiny table. “She told me that they’ve figured out how the curse made Ron deaf. And that the ministry won’t give her her memory back.”

P0tter is anything but subtle in his conversational subject changes, but Severus has to admire how he refuses to rise to easy bait anymore.

“They refused, as in they’ve lost it?” Severus asks.

“Not lost. It sounds like they’ve destroyed it.”

“Which would make your memory rather valuable, wouldn’t you say?” Severus concludes, tapping his fingers on the table. He used to run his hand through his hair when he was pondering something, but ever since he’d had it cut, Severus has found himself cured of that habit.

“Yes, it would,” Harry agrees, and his face is set seriously. “That might also explain why I’m being followed.”

“I hardly think someone wants to steal your memories, Potter.”

“No, I don’t think so either,” Harry agrees. He’s checking out the calendar that Severus has hung up on the wall next to the fridge, the one that details his weekly produce items. “But in the newspaper they keep going on about the wizarding world being back on its feet, chin up, carry on, the world is bright. What if they don’t want me to share my memory of what really happened?”

Severus suddenly has a funny feeling in his stomach, a feeling he has had not very often, but that has visited on nights before a damning event has taken place. He walks over to the fridge and reaches up over the freezer, where he finds his father’s old farming journal. His father had often set up a small greenhouse in the back garden over the winter, and with Potter now appearing to be an on and off visitor, Severus is going to need more food.

History is written by the winners, Severus thinks to himself as he sits down at the table.

“That is a disturbing, and very real, possibility,” Severus finally admits. He stretches his leg and hits a box that’s under the table, this week’s delivery from the ministry. The box of Victory Beans slips out, and Severus eyes them with contempt.

“Funny, I was at Hogwarts the other day, and heard some kids talking about Victory Beans,” Harry says, a small laugh escaping.

“You were at Hogwarts,” Severus repeats in his professor’s tone of utter disbelief. “Have you not just told me that you’re being followed? Does staying low mean anything in that thick skull of yours?”

“You really can’t stop insulting people, can you?” Harry asks, his annoyance apparent.

“My apologies, Lord Potter. Why ever did you gallivant yourself to Hogwarts?”

Harry huffs at him, but answers anyway. “To talk to the portraits. They were able to tell me quite a bit about what happened to people in the castle that night.”

“Indeed,” Severus muses. “A rather advantageous viewpoint they had, I imagine.”

“Yeah. Anyway, these two kids were talking about how much they love Victory Beans, and thought it would be cool to have Victory Frogs too.”

This time Severus isn’t almost entirely faking the sick look on his face.

….

P0tter does not stay overnight again. Instead, he spends early Friday morning (when Severus is at the market) deconstructing an old washcloth of Severus’ and doing some sort of odd craft in the outshed. He is gone by the time Severus returns, a new week’s worth of groceries in arm and the auror waiting on the front stoop.

Severus puts the groceries away while the auror checks over his spells and weekly object list. His muscles are tense, as he’s not exactly sure how Potter will show up. He has the receipts for the extra food however, and the auror doesn’t seem to be particularly bothered by anything this week. Severus puts away the plate he bought from the second hand shop, to replace the one he threw at Potter’s head. He knows not to buy new, as he bought a new radio in July and almost had it confiscated when the auror had thought he’d stolen it.

“Have you been in contact with Harry Potter?” The auror asks again.

“You are aware that I worked tirelessly to have the boy expelled from Hogwarts the entire six years he was there, correct?”

The auror looks at him critically.

“You’re hiding something. Do you know where he is?”

Severus wants to laugh at how transparent the auror is acting, but he doesn’t want to risk any damage or confiscation of his property.

“I have no idea where that brat is. How curious that it sounds as if you’ve lost him.”

“The ministry,” and the auror actually puffs up at this, “is interested in his whereabouts for security and other reasons.”

“For his security, or yours?” Severus asks, shaking tea into the teapot. “Nonetheless, I do not know where he is. As an adult, however, I would imagine that he does not like to be followed like a puppy, and would therefore take steps to avoid it.”

He has managed to cut off the auror before the auror can properly feel insulted, and the man leaves moments later.

…..

Harry returns Sunday night, and he brings provisions. Severus watches from the kitchen window with curiosity as Potter places a few sacks under a stone by a pile of dirt, and shovels it around. He’s got a large bag with him, and he seems to be setting up a stage of sorts. Severus wonders if he shouldn’t just kick Potter out and go back to his daily routine, but then he decides he likes the mental stimulation of the little mystery and can put up with company.

Once in the cottage, Potter places the bag on the table and pulls out a brand new duvet for the bed. Severus covets it, his eyes roaming over the thick material and the evenly spaced pockets of down. It looks very comfortable and rather expensive.

“It’s spelled to look like a thin old blanket to anyone else,” Harry explains proudly. He pulls a piece of paper out and hands it over. “You only paid fifteen quid for it.”

The second thing he pulls out of the bag is a pair of undergarments. Long Johns, Severus thinks they’re called. They’re black, thin, and Harry claims they’ll help keep the ache away from the bite marks on his leg. Severus is doubtful, but decides that there can be little harm in trying them.

“And just how did I come into a windfall to afford this?” Severus drawls.

“You sold dirt.” Harry has kicked his shoes off by the front door and now walks towards the ladder, carrying the duvet with him.

“Pardon?” Severus asks, and it has nothing to do with being polite.

“Dirt, from your property. Bagged up and sold to muggles as expensive fertilizer. The auror will think it’s resourceful and cunning, like any old Slytherin would be.” Potter has climbed the stairs and Severus watches his shadow as he spreads the blanket out over the bed.

“Mr Potter, there are no houses in real life. It would be exceedingly stupid of yourself to assume that only the Slytherins are dishonest, the Ravenclaws intelligent, the Gryffindors brave, and the Hufflepuffs diplomatic.”

Potter is silent, and Severus is sure he’s thinking it over. He looks at the package of long underwear in his hand, and notes that they are a muggle brand, from Marks and Spencer. He hangs them on the ladder to take upstairs, tomorrow is slated to be cold again and Severus will test them out.

Severus moves to the living room, pulling the armchair a little closer to the fire and settling himself in it. He withdraws notepaper from his pocket, a sheet of clues that he’s been working at on and off all day.

“Potter!” Severus calls, skimming through the details. “The letter you received, is that from the same man who cornered you about giving a speech?”

Potter is still puttering around upstairs, but he’s literally less than twenty feet away and high volume is not required for conversation.

“Yeah. Looks like a right old prat, too, in fancy business robes and silver hair. I saw him again in Diagon Alley today.”

“What were you doing in Diagon Alley?” Severus questions. He’s suddenly very glad his war efforts with Potter were at a distance, as he likely would have strangled the boy if he’d had to work directly with him.

“I was under disguise,” Harry reassures, though Severus feels anything but. “It looks a right mess. I just had a hunch that I needed to be there.”

“Good lord. A hunch. How did you manage to survive a year of horcrux hunting on your own?”

“I had Hermione,” Harry admits. “Anyway, I had that hunch, and I ran into Percy Weasley, of all people. I gave him a fake name, and told him I was working with DASKA.”

“The Diagon Alley Shopkeeper’s Association?” Severus grunts, squinting at Potter’s chicken scratch. Thankfully the optometrist had promised his reading spectacles would be ready in a week, and had agreed to a baked goods exchange discount.

“It was written under W. Terrence Cardogan’s name, on the letter.” Harry sits down on the top floor, his feet resting on the top rung of the ladder.

“How does Percy Weasley, of all people, still have his job?”

“Never mind that,” Harry says, impatiently. “He’s heard of DASKA, and not only that, they’ve got strong ties in the ministry. He asked me if I was going to their restructuring meeting, with the minister and the wizengamot.”

“Hmm,” Severus ponders. He taps the page with his fingers, a new habit of his while in thought. “Diagon Alley wasn’t damaged in the final battle.”

“No, it wasn’t,” comes a half yawn from the ladder. “The question is, what are they restructuring, and why are so many officials interested in it?”

“Do not fall asleep on the ladder, Potter,” Severus admonishes, turning and noting the slight head nods that Harry is doing.

“I won’t.”

“How long have you packed your bag for?” Severus asks, looking at the small black duffle bag that has been half hidden behind the couch.

“A couple of nights,” Potter says, very quietly.

“At least you brought new bedding,” Severus sighs, pretending to sound put out as he slowly rises out of the armchair and walks towards the ladder.

…

Rain has never bothered Tolstoy before, and Severus is watching him carefully. The boy, whom up until now had always been meticulous and calm, seems to be itching from some sort of invisible insect on his skin. Tolstoy is hovering over a kitchen chair, and he is chirping at Severus. Almost sounding like a bird, and the chirps are fast and unintelligible. It is disconcerting behaviour, and Iain has never mentioned what to do if Tolstoy becomes over excited or agitated over something.

Severus moves to take lunch out of the fridge, still keeping an eye on Tolstoy. If he needs to, he can charm the boy to stay stuck to the chair, but Severus doesn’t want to waste a spell if he doesn’t need to.

Harry walks the few steps from the living room to the kitchen in the event that Severus needs assistance, but he is at a blank regarding this behaviour as well. 

“Did you feed him something strange?” Harry asks, taken back by the uneven grin that is spread across Tolstoy’s face. Harry hasn’t ever seen him…happy.

“It is only now lunch time, Potter. I’ve not fed him anything yet,” Severus resists the urge to call Potter a moron, though it should be very obvious by what he’s preparing that no one has had food yet.

Iain has only asked Severus to watch Tolstoy until supper, five hours longer than the boy usually stays.

“Erik, have you gotten into something?” Severus calls, and he’s not surprised when Tolstoy does not acknowledge him at all. The chirps continue, and are accompanied by excited flapping of his hands.

“Tolstoy. Tell me what you ate today,” Severus tries again. This time there is a slight turn of Tolstoy’s head, and he gets down from the chair. Both Severus and Harry follow with their eyes as Tolstoy drags his feet slightly on the stone floor. He heads straight for the cupboard that Harry is leaning against and is now rolling his tongue as he chirps. Tolstoy holds the handle of the cupboard, staring and chirping at it until Harry moves to the side. He’s not quick enough, however, as Tolstoy swings the door open and the handle slams into Harry. 

Harry drops like a stone, clutching at his groin and gasping aloud. Severus winces in sympathy, not cold enough to take amusement in that sort of pain. He is about to offer a bag of ice when he sees Tolstoy hold up a package he’s pulled from the now open cupboard, grinning wildly. The chirps have changed to a repetition of ‘candy.’

“Potter. He’s holding an open box of Victory Beans,” Severus says, deep in thought.

“I don’t care about your fucking Victory Beans!” Harry wheezes, doubled over on the floor. “He hit me in the plums!”

“You don’t expect me to kiss them better, do you?” Severus deadpans, his expression a mixture of amusement and horrification.

Harry grunts, and Severus knows that if Tolstoy were not there he would have received a much more vulgar response.

Tolstoy has poured the box of Victory Beans on the table, and is lining them up. Severus inspects the box, looking to see what ingredients are inside. Magical foods rarely have all the ingredients listed, and Severus isn’t surprised to find that there is little information there. He stares at the beans, and looks at Tolstoy’s happy face. The boy is almost buzzing with excitement.

On the floor, Harry manages to sit up and crawl towards a kitchen chair.

“I feel a bit sick,” Harry winces. Severus moves as if on autopilot, stalking to the kitchen cabinet next to the mugs and pulling out a vial of anti-nausea potion. He turns to pass it to Harry and stops, staring at the bottle.

“Can you fetch me a regular box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, Potter?” Severus asks, talking to the bottle and studying it close, as if it were the remnants of a potion that spontaneously exploded. 

“Not right now I can’t,” comes the response, and Harry’s face has taken on a strange pale tone. Severus notes this and hands the vial over in a hurry, not wanting to clean up any sick in his kitchen.


	3. The Pumpkin Scone Conspiracy by oliversnape

Severus' suspicions are confirmed with the candy coating of the Victory Beans. He'd melted some in a small pot over a Bunsen burner he'd procured from a rummage sale the local high school had put on in June. Compared to the amount of liquid released from the regular beans, Severus can confidently conclude that another ingredient has been added to the Victory Beans that has resulted in their coating to have a lower viscosity than the Bertie Botts ones. Severus suspects either a calming draught or a mood enhancer, but with the restrictions set upon his magic, he is unable to precisely identify what's been added.

Potter, though absolutely rubbish with the sort of investigative potions that require thinking outside the instructions, does make a good test subject. Severus has just enough patience to finish explaining for the third time how carefully he will monitor Harry's reactions before he gets fed up and shoves a handful of Victory Beans down Harry's throat. It's interesting how Potter's face can turn several shades of angry red, but Severus doesn't record this as he's quite certain this reaction has less to do with the beans themselves and more to the way they were delivered.

"Do you feel differently?" Severus asks, staring intently at him.

"No. I still feel like strangling you," Harry snaps back, glaring. His face is starting to relax, however, and Severus notes that Harry takes on a looser sitting position. It's Wednesday, and Severus flips on the radio to listen to the farmer's weather report.

"What are the beans supposed to taste like, anyway?"

"Happiness," Severus answers with a sour look on his face. The box is lying on the kitchen table, next to two more than Harry has brought. "Don't ask me what happiness is supposed to taste like."

"It's like a mixture of bubblegum and butterbeer," Harry answers idly, smiling at Severus. "We should go for a walk. It's a nice day and I've not seen all of your property."

"You're in a good mood," Severus states blandly, listening to the howling wind outside.

"Well…I guess. Things just seem lighter," Harry shrugs.

"Can you remember the war?" Severus has his notebook out and he is noting down things rapidly.

"Yes, though it was a while ago. Things seem a bit distanced."

"Distanced, indeed. Can you lie, Potter?"

"Probably. I've done it many times before."

"Lie to me, then," Severus says with his arms crossed.

"I hate you."

Harry smiles and wanders off to the living room, leaving Severus frustrated that he can't figure out if the boy is lying or not.

….

Potter has been staying over for a little less than a week. Severus finds the sleeping arrangements to be very odd – he's never shared his bed with another man before. It seems to work, however, as it's no longer chilly at night and the bed somehow seems more comfortable. There has not been any inappropriate touching, not that Severus is worried he'll do anything whilst asleep, save for this morning when he felt Potter's morning erection against his thigh.

Severus had feigned sleep, as he had spent ten minutes thinking about his schedule for the day and just how weird it was to actually be touched by another man's genitals (albeit through two layers of clothing). Harry had jerked awake, rolling over to the opposite side and lying tensely still. Severus had let his breathing even out, and showed no sign of consciousness as he felt Potter slip out of bed and creep down the ladder.

For all its faults, Severus is thankful that the attic of the cottage is blessedly silent. He waits long enough for coffee to be put on to brew before sliding out of bed himself and silently making his way to the ladder. By sitting on the first step, Severus can lean down (and feel his temples throb from the blood rushing to his forehead), and see into the living room. There stands Potter by the window, dressed in fuzzy flannel pants that have a hole behind the left knee, and a non-descript grey shirt that sticks out from under the green Weasley jumper he's wearing. A pair of thick woolen socks are on his feet. The hair is a respectable length, longer and a more mature cut, especially when compared to the ridiculous hair he had in year five at Hogwarts. There's two days fuzzy growth on his chin and lip, and his shoulders are broad for someone of his height.

Potter is hugging himself.

It's not an overt gesture, and Severus is rather certain that Potter doesn't realize he's doing it. He simply stands there and clutches at his own arms, just above the elbow, rubbing his hands slightly. His head is bent slightly down, and he seems to stand almost drawn into himself.

Severus remembers what Potter has told him of the Weasleys. One dead, one deaf, one disfigured, one obliviated. Even though he's never thought that Potter and the female Weasley would be able to function in any relationship type other that a sibling situation, he feels her actions are almost reprehensible. There was no way that Ginevra Weasley could not have known that her memories of Voldemort and the terrors of war were so intrinsically tied with Potter that by obliterating one, she'd doom the other.

Downstairs, a pale white hand reaches across the back of a neck, the hair trimmed slightly unevenly. It rubs against the skin on the top of a shoulder, fingers dancing along what Severus suspects is a scar.

Potter knows, he realizes. Harry Potter knows that his girlfriend chose obliviation over him. Severus stands noisily and makes his way down the ladder, muttering about what he'll purchase that morning at the market. He gives a short nod to Potter, and doesn't say a thing about the sexual wake up call. Potter's shoulders release some of their tension, as if they'd been expecting an attack. Severus isn't very good at any offerings of comfort, but sometimes not saying anything is Severus' way of saying a lot.

The Daily Prophet is spread out on the kitchen table, the main page filled with a picture of a bustling Diagon Alley and strangely, Harry Potter. Severus stares closely at the picture, the details seem somewhat off to him. It's a shot taken from the entranceway at the Leaky Cauldron, and shows Potter rushing through the street. He looks odd though, his hair is a bit shorter and his face - Severus blinks softly and stares at the man standing in his kitchen, taking scones out of the oven with a worn oven mitt covering his hand. It's an old picture, Severus realises. He studies it closer and sees in the background Florean Fortescue's, open for business and crowded. Severus hasn't been to Diagon Alley since May, but Potter had told him just yesterday that the ice cream shop was still closed.

"Can you find Harry Potter's favourite place to be in Diagon Alley?" Severus reads the caption with disdain. "What's this rubbish?"

Potter returns to the table with the scones, adding a plate of butter from the icebox.

"They're having a contest. Find whatever lightning bolt they've hidden in the alley before the statue unveiling and win a prize."

"Did you agree to this?" Severus asks, raising his eyebrow.

"Are you daft? Of course I didn't." Potter rips apart his scone, the pumpkin scent bursting over the table. "Diagon Alley is still pretty empty, and I figure they're using my name to draw more people out there."

"Really, Potter, that's a bit over the top even for yourself," Snape says, flipping open the paper and scowling at an advertisement for Victory Beans. His eyes wander until he finds the smaller article about Hogwarts' delayed new year starting on Monday October 5th.

"It is, isn't it?" Potter pretends to joke. "I looked up that Cardogan bloke, by the way, at the London Library."

Severus watches as butter melts into the air pockets baked into his scone.

"The Cardogans own Twilfit and Tattings," Severus says with precision, speaking like a man who'd been told as a boy which shops were above him. "A exclusive Diagon Alley shop that caters to the pureblood families."

"Yeah," Harry agrees, topping up Severus' cup with more coffee. "A bit narrow minded to assume he's pureblood, though. The Cardogans go back to the 15th century in muggle genealogy. Well, they started as Cadogans, someone added the R along the way."

"Fine. They're half bloods. What does that have to do with those ridiculous beans and the ministry withholding memories, Sherlock?" Severus finishes up breakfast and rinses his plate in the sink. There's a grocery list on the fridge, next to Potter's postcard, that he shoves into his pocket.

"I dunno. Why does the owner of a high end clothing store want to associate with me?" Potter asks, holding his arms out and nodding down at his worn and oversized clothing.

Potter has a point, but at least he looks comfortable about it, Severus thinks.

…..

Potter stays this time when the auror visits. He is under that blasted invisibility cloak of his, and Severus follows his regular routine of putting away the market goods while the auror checks over his receipts. The auror notices the extra food Severus has bought for the following week, and questions him about it.

"I'm preparing for hibernation," Severus answers with a glare, and the auror rolls his eyes. The regular questions come again, but Severus notices this time that the auror doesn't ask him about Potter. Instead, when he's done questioning Severus about the spells he's used, he sits back and points his wand up.

"Point me Harry Potter." The auror has a malicious grin on his face, and Severus remains impassive. He hopes to hell the cloak conceals Potter, as it had worked in the same situation for the boy when he'd tried that spell at Hogwarts. To Severus' dismay, though he doesn't show it, the wand starts to vibrate and point toward the living room.

"Potter _has_ been here," the auror says, looking like a cat that has cornered a mouse. He rises, and so does Severus, and steps into the living room. The wand points towards the fireplace and Severus watches from the hallway, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. The wand wavers at the mantel, and Severus bites back a snort as he spies Potter's handiwork. Now he knows what has happened to his old dishrag during Potter's craft time.

The auror holds up a small and rather ugly doll, coloured with marker to show a very rough outline of a red shirt and jeans. Thick black lines indicate the glasses, and there's a yellow lightning bolt on the forehead.

"It's a voodoo doll," Severus smirks. "Part of my anger management therapy."

One of the logs in the fireplace shifts ever so slightly, and Severus realizes that Potter is almost standing in the hearth.

"Have you brought the potion ingredients?" Severus asks, distracting the auror.

"Of course. They're in the box as usual."

The auror looks annoyed, and Severus suspects he's very disappointed to have not found the Boy Who Lived.

"Still don't know where Potter is, do you?" Severus asks, and manages to keep the sneer down.

"Don't patronize me, Snape. The Black family home hasn't been under fidelius in a year. We know he lives there."

The auror seems very sure of himself, and Severus quirks his head.

"So he has you as personal body guards now? How strangely ill-befitting of a national hero."

"Not just national, Snape," the auror warns, pointing his wand. "He's the wizarding world's hero, and he belongs to England."

The auror leaves, and Severus is left to ponder that disturbing statement. After five minutes, when they're sure the auror won't be returning, Potter uncloaks himself and moves from the fireplace.

"Can they actually track where I am, if I use magic?" Potter asks, shaking soot off his sock.

"Do you honestly think we'd have gone through twenty years of war and stalemate if the Dark Lord and the death eaters could have been found with a simple magic-tracking charm?"

The patented Snape sneer is in full swing and Potter has the grace to look sheepish at his stupid question.

"Make yourself useful and unpack the box of ministry handouts," Severus says, pulling out the whiteboard he purchased at the pound shop in town. All their impressions of Potter's conspiracy are noted down, in Pitman shorthand. The symbols baffle Harry completely, but Severus understands them like a natural second tongue. He adds the bit about belonging to England, and records the second letter that Potter has received from Cardogan and DASKA. This one is written in a far more pushing language, and Severus is certain that Cardogan is well versed in being an assumptive seller.

"Well this is creepy," Harry says, interrupting Severus' musings. "The kids at Hogwarts mentioned these only a few days ago."

He holds up a bright red box. There's a strong white V centered on it in a bold sans serif font, with a detailed frog in front of it. The frog has a wand in its mouth and a lopsided crown on its head. Victory Frogs, with a special 'euphoria-flavoured' crème centre, and a new collection of wizard cards. Severus stares at it, already wondering what the physical effect of the frogs will be, and how many of the dead will be on the cards.

…..

A day later on the 26th of September, a Saturday, Severus falls down the stairs and loses consciousness. It's a spasm that has shot up his leg as he's descending to make breakfast, and Potter is by his side in a flash.

Severus does not remember this. He does not remember breaking his leg, he doesn't remember damaging his ribs, and he doesn't remember coughing up blood. He does, however, recollect the pain that shoots through his chest as he lies in bed and wakes to find Potter wrapping his upper chest. Potter's face looks frantic, and Severus doesn't understand why until the pain floods him.

He hears another voice, a lighter and calmer voice and he can see just to his right, not by turning much because his head is throbbing, that there is a small portrait giving Potter instructions as he works to heal Severus. It's of a witch in old-fashioned dress, and she has patience to deal with Potter's nerves. Severus thinks she looks familiar, and wonders if he's seen a portrait of her in the headmaster's office. He smiles ever so slightly, wondering if Potter apparated to Hogwarts and stole the portrait, or if it was at Grimmauld place. The matron appears to be older than Madame Pomphrey, and he wonders if Potter ran for the portrait and supplies first, or if he levitated Severus upstairs.

If he levitated Severus. Oh hell.

"Potter." Severus winces at the taste in his mouth and wonders what potion the man has shoved down his throat. The portrait hears him, and immediately starts questioning him.

"What's your name, dear? You've had a bit of a fall, just sit back."

"How much magic did you do?" His voice isn't as demanding as it normally is, and Severus can't focus enough to glare properly. Of course Potter did magic, there is no way he'd be able to drag a twelve stone man up the ladder without doing much further damage, and Severus can already feel that the bone in his leg has been set in a splint.

His question is answered, however, by a furious pounding on the front door. It lasts only a moment before the door is opened with a vicious alohamora, for Severus is not a free man and he has no expectations of privacy. Severus has a moment to blink before another potion is poured down his throat and then both the vial and the portrait are stuffed into the shadows of the rafters.

Potter is ready as they ascend the stairs, and Severus counts three aurors, two coming up and one remaining in the kitchen. They all look bedraggled, unaccustomed to human contact at six am.

"Hit your limit there, Sn…Potter!" It's the younger auror, the one who visits him weekly, who has arrived first and is staring at the business end of Potter's wand. Severus stares at the wand a little closer, and thinks it looks familiar. It's not Potter's original wand.

"What on earth are you doing here?" The second auror has reached the room and suddenly Severus is aware of just how small the little attic loft is, as the auror leans against his chest of clothes and Harry scrunches over the foot of his bed to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling.

"I'm collecting funds for charity." Potter deadpans, and Severus wonders when he's picked up such a gift for sarcasm.

"You're…you missed an appointment at the ministry yesterday."

It's the second auror that says this, the one Severus does not recognize, and by the narrowing of Potter's harsh green eyes Severus knows it's the wrong thing to say.

"Why do you know my schedule?" Potter demands, and Severus sees a flash of the temper that had enveloped the boy in year five. His head is starting to feel warm though, the concussion gone and the painkiller working, and it takes effort for Severus to remain focused on the conversation.

"And why did it take you twenty minutes to get here after I'd done three bone healing spells?"

Severus squints his eyebrows at this before remembering the pain in his chest and legs. Multiple breaks, it seems.

There's silence in the room before the first auror offers his very stupid answer. "Healing. Not bone shattering."

Severus doesn't remember much after this. He hears various shouts from the aurors, and an oddly calm voice from Potter the entire time, a voice that sounds much more dangerous than any threats the aurors can cook up. He remembers Potter kicking out the aurors, and when Potter leaves to speak to the minister. Kingsley Shacklebolt had been kind enough to offer Snape an under the table deal – they'd originally wanted to ban his magic all together, but he has a feeling that Potter will still run into difficulties. He is their hero, and he has the Diagon Alley group attempting to use him as a figurehead. Severus knows they will have great trouble with the idea of the Boy Who Lived shacking up with an imprisoned death eater.

…

A thin book lays unopened still on the small night table that is shoved under the rafters. Severus is lying in bed, his damaged leg propped up in the sling fastened to the old wrought iron bed frame. He hears the door open downstairs, and some crashing about as Harry drops his cloak on the floor and yanks off his boots. First one on the front kitchen tile, the second on the wood of the living room where the ladder is. He can tell this by the sound each boot makes as it hits the surface, and before long he looks into the haunted eyes of Harry Potter, peeking over the hole in the floor. The man hauls himself up the rest of the way and stands at the foot of the bed, scarf hanging from his neck like a noose that's been slackened, hair wind whipped to the side, nose and ears red from the cold. The candlelight is forgiving, the circles under his eyes are less pronounced, and he seems to take a fuller appearance by standing square to Severus.

He is shaking, and seeing shadows.

Severus makes to sit up, to pull the ridiculous boy to bed and tell him to sleep away his nightmares, but a bolt of agony shoots up his leg and Severus grimaces, clutching at the calf muscle as if it's cramped on him. He moans aloud at the movement, as his ribs protest being shifted. Potter flinches, and takes in the sling Severus' leg is strapped into, and turns immediately. He descends the ladder with the same lack of grace that beguiled him as a child, slipping on the bottom steps. Severus hears the door slam as Potter leaves the cottage, and he knows that the dratted boy has forgotten his cloak. As small crack of apparition in the distance confirms this, and Severus is not surprised to hear the boy return twenty minutes later.

He is, however, surprised to see him climb the ladder with what seems to be a pillowcase of supplies from St. Mungo's.

"Am I the poor, Robin Hood?" Severus asks, his tone not nearly disdainful enough for his usual self. At the moment, he is glad for any sort of reprieve from the knives that are residing in his bones.

"They never healed you. That's not helping the new injuries," Potter replies, dropping his booty on the bed and pulling off his jumper. It's cold in the attic; there's no fireplace heat that reaches them, but Harry does not shiver. He crawls across the bed, one sock half hanging off his foot, and there is determination on his face.

Severus allows his head to fall back against the pillow. He's not certain what time it is, but it seems like a while ago that Potter kicked out the aurors. There's still light out the window though, so it must be afternoon. He sees that Potter has stolen some compresses, and he hopes that tonight his leg will allow him to sleep through the night. It's not that St. Mungo's –begrudgingly – didn't heal him, they just never took into account the nerve damage that magic couldn't fix.

"This will be easier if we remove your trousers," Potter says neutrally, holding up a package for inspection. He seems oblivious to the glare that Snape is directing his way.

He's allowed Potter to share his bed for strictly heat related issues, and also because he knows that the couch downstairs is rubbish. He's got another four years before he can replace it, with the ministry watching over his spending.

Severus crosses his arms slowly and gives Potter an appraising look, one he knows throws the boy off.

"Is this a misguided attempt to get into my pants?"

Severus is rewarded with a rare smile, one that in the past was reserved only for Potter's close friends but is now gifted to Severus almost daily.

"No. I'm getting you out of them," Potter answers, drawing his wand.

Severus waves him off, imagining what the aurors will say if they examine Potter's wand and find a stripping spell in it.

By the time they gets the trousers off and him turned to his side, Severus is in enough pain to not care that Potter is seeing his black underpants, that Potter is massaging his leg with gentle fingers. He does, however, notice that Potter's cheeks redden ever so slightly as his fingers stroke the inside of Severus' thigh.

Potter keeps neutral and says nothing about the arousal Severus experiences from the massage. Severus catches him staring – it would be hard not to as there is not much material holding him in and it's a human fallacy for the line of sight to be drawn there in an ordinarily very clothed society. He finds it strange that Potter seems to be almost fascinated that he's caused this reaction in another man.

"Iain enquired about you."

"The market…" Severus exhales with a grimace as a particularly tight muscle is massaged.

"I delivered some of the stuff. He says there's a small tourist market on Wednesday I can sell the rest of your produce at."

Severus nods, and tells himself not to worry about the money yet. He's always been fastidious about his own budget, but Potter has proven that he can at least cook. Severus hopes the drugs Potter has given him for the pain will enable him to forget that he's placing himself in Harry Potter's hands.

"Why didn't you tell me you made the deal with Shacklebolt?" Potter asks, and though his tone is light, Severus can sense the annoyance.

"I don't believe it is any of your business," Severus replies crossly.

"Don't you?" Harry snaps. "I barged in there today to demand that I be allowed visitation, demand that I be allowed to supplement your food budget–"

Potter holds up a warning hand to stop Severus from protesting.

"Don't say a bloody word about money. You know you cannot survive the winter here on what they've allowed you."

His shirt is lifted and Severus glances briefly down. From what he's able to see the left side of his chest is one rather impressive bruise.

"Shacklebolt argued with me for twenty minutes. Six months in Azkaban and a 250 galleon fine. Why didn't you take that instead?"

Potter is exasperated, but Severus can see that he merely wants to comprehend Severus' choices.

"It was not enough."

Severus' voice is not as smooth as it usually is, but it's not due to the pain he's feeling. Potter gives him a very steady look, and Severus is glad to not find pity in his face.

"You didn't kill Charity Burbage."

Severus realizes that it must have been quite a row for Shacklebolt to tell Potter the real reason he was under house arrest.

"Not preventing the murder makes me just as guilty."

Once his leg is wrapped, and his ribs have received the same methodical treatment, Severus watches Potter sit back on his haunches and gather the supplies. Severus can feel the heat in the compresses throbbing along his chest and leg, slowly soothing the ache out of his nerves and bones. It's sore to breathe deeply, and he appreciates that Potter has tucked rolled up jumpers beside him to keep Severus immobile. He watches as Potter puts his jumper back on and changes out of his damp socks. There's a stray leaf in his hair, and Severus wonders if he's been outside, working in the garden.

"I had a thirty minute meeting with the wizengamot today," Potter says, standing by the foot of the bed.

"And?"

"And they offered surprisingly little resistance to me staying here."

Severus ponders this in his pain-hazed mind. He wonders when the idea of Potter staying with him became an acceptable one.

"They do keep trying to find you," Severus says, staring at the ceiling.

"I'm more concerned now than before," Potter states, slipping down the ladder as Severus' eyes close.

….

It's early evening when Severus next wakes. His ribs still feel as if someone has danced on them, but his leg, while stiff, is no longer making him feel like an oversized pincushion. From downstairs there is the smell of something delicious cooking, and though Severus cannot quite tell what it is, he can smell roasted potatoes and what he thinks is roasted chicken.

He may just keep Potter around for the cooking.

Severus is warm in his little cocoon, and rather loath to leave. He desperately needs a piss though, and decides to sacrifice one of his spell allowances on a nursing spell he'd picked up when he was first injured. They already know Potter is there, and Severus hopes to be granted a reprieve due to injury.

He notices the thin bundle of papers on the table next to him, resembling a small chapter of a book yet to be put together. It takes a moment of very careful maneuvering until Severus can reach it, and then he fights with the blanket to get the maximum amount of coverage while still being able to read the paper. The title page is rather Spartan, a rather unimaginative working title of 'the truth' (no capitalization), and the ridiculous moniker 'Ache' as the author.

Severus knows that Potter has left it there on purpose, and that writing it out is much easier for the man then telling his story. Severus knows before reading the first sentence that this is Potter's memory of what happened in the Forest.

Chapter 9.

The Forbidden Forest clearing, the very same one in which I had met Aragog  
and his extended family when I was a mere twelve year old, was where Voldemort  
had hidden himself. It was an ideal place, a large clearing deep within the roots  
of trees and protected by their massive trunks.

As we crouched and tried not to watch the condemned Malfoys, I searched around  
the clearing for any vantage points. Voldemort was sitting on a transfigured wooden  
throne, nestled on a raised platform under the largest tree. The death eaters made  
a circle around him, egging on the ravaging werewolves and sparking with demented  
electricity and excitement. Bellatrix looked even further insane than I remembered  
her at the department of mysteries.

The group with me were fidgeting and agitated, turning to avoid watching the  
bloodshed below. Draco Malfoy's name was called, and he was led to the centre of  
the group. We watched, we couldn't help not watching, surrounded by pungent moss,  
shedding tree bark, and inexplicably sweet pollen. Ron's face turned terribly white as  
he saw Draco's desperation at the choice he'd been given. Die like his parents, or  
become a werewolf. Perhaps he saw the same thing I did. Draco Malfoy, the skinny  
eleven year old who looked to be playing dress up in his father's clothes.

Ginny threw up when she saw Draco try to kill himself. George had stepped back, away  
from the view, and Neville had covered Luna's eyes. I could tell that Hermione was  
frantically trying to think of a spell to use that wouldn't give us away – we were all,  
including Draco, only children. I did nothing. I watched, horrified, as Draco's choice in  
life was ripped from him like mine had been. I saw the green at the very same second  
that Voldemort decided for Draco, and called the wolves. The light flashed from my right,  
where Ron was standing with an eerily calm look on his face. He didn't look like he'd  
committed his first murder.

Draco fell swiftly, silently, and without any physical pain. Voldemort was enraged, calling  
his death eaters to search us out, to draw out whoever had performed the mercy killing.  
I stared at the lifeless body of my school enemy, and told my friends to flee. Flee for help,  
flee for ammunition, anything that would get them away. No one questioned my steady  
voice, and no one turned to make sure I stayed hidden. I waited for Hermione, the last of  
the group, to disappear over the ridge of the forest and go back to the castle.

I began throwing rocks. Something snapped in me those few moments previously, some  
hope that I'd held to had been getting weaker and weaker as the years went on. I threw  
rocks towards Voldemort, pelting his little platform. I took one out of my pocket (which  
wasn't actually a rock but as a projectile looked close enough), and lobbed it right under  
the platform. Death eaters were screaming at me, Voldemort was cackling, and I was yelling  
right back. Yelling for my mother, yelling for my father, yelling for the little boy who'd grown  
up unloved. Yelling for the young man who'd finally had enough and wanted out of the game.

It took less than a minute for Voldemort to become fed up and summon me. He levitated my  
body like a cheap ragdoll towards him, and I didn't fight it. I found myself floating right above  
the man who'd stolen everything from me, my chin held in a deathly grip as he stood and  
smugly spoke to me.

I didn't hear a word. I didn't need to.

From somewhere behind me Bellatrix decided that she wanted part of the fun and she cast a  
whipping hex at me, slashing me from shoulder to thigh with a glowing hot barbed wire. This  
went against whatever rules Voldemort had set out, and his few seconds' flash of wrath  
towards Bellatrix was all I needed.

In my year on the run, I learned how to do basic wandless magic. I managed to whisper "accio  
pin" despite the bruising grip near my throat, and I faced Voldemort, and my own death, with  
a smile.

Last May Professor Severus Snape told me one thing that stayed with me for the entire year  
afterwards. While fleeing from Hogwarts after the headmaster's death, we dueled and he yelled  
"No Unforgivable curses from you, Potter!" He was right, I've never been able to make them  
work properly. It was because of this that I prepared myself with some more muggle means of  
self-defense, including the line of hand grenades from Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes. It was one  
of those that I threw from my pocket under the platform, and one of those that I summoned the  
pin from. It only took ten seconds before it exploded, and the last thing I saw was Voldemort's  
confused face, before everything when blinding white.

I had no idea that Voldemort had ten hostages tied to the tree behind us. I didn't know that four  
people were trying to rescue them.

I can only hope they didn't suffer when I killed them.

….

Dinner, delivered to him in bed, is quiet. Potter says absolutely nothing about what he wrote, and Severus has no questions for him yet. That can certainly wait until morning. Severus is treated to another leg massage and some disgusting potions, delivered by a silent Potter while the mediwitch portrait lectures him about bone re-growth and rib damage. He is grateful when Potter puts the picture away, and doesn't miss Potter's harsh movements as he undresses himself and yanks his sleep pants on. Severus has gained more mobility over the day, and he's taken his leg out of the makeshift sling in order to stretch it. He turns slightly to watch Potter's awkward movements, studying the small twitches. It has been a long day, and Potter is very high strung.

Potter turns just enough to allow Severus to see his bare back in the candlelight, and the scarring is now quite obvious. There is a harsh line that curves its way down Potter's back like a river, pockmarked where the barbs of the wire hit. The centre of the line is almost white, and the ridges around it are red from where it burnt Harry's skin. If Bellatrix weren't already dead Severus would have been tempted to feed her a poison that would mimic the effects of the curse she'd used.

Harry climbs into bed and tosses his glasses to the piece of wood that he's nailed to the rafter on his side of the bed. It serves as his night table, as there's not any room for a real one. He curls up immediately, his back to Severus in a classic defense fetal position.

Severus slowly turns fully on his side as well, and after a moment of studying Potter's neck and the bit of exposed shoulder from the too-large shirt Potter has put on – the part of his clavicle that he rubs subconsciously – Severus places his hand on Potter's shoulder and squeezes gently. The man flinches, there's no mistaking this action. Severus traces his finger gently down the scar, slipping shortly under the collar of the shirt and tapping softly. The skin is rough, and though it's been healed magically the scarring is still strongly welted. It must have hurt like hell.

"I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat," Severus says, quoting Churchill.

Potter lets his tension out as Severus' hand stays strong on his shoulder, and Severus then feels a smaller but equally calloused hand cover his own.

"When you go through hell, keep going," Potter quotes back. Potter shimmies a little further into the center of the bed, making Severus' hold on him a tad bit comfier, and seems to drift off faster than usual. Neither moves when Severus' hand slips downward, coming to rest splayed between the shoulder blades of Harry.

Severus is not surprised to awake on his back in the middle of the night, with Potter curled under his arm against his side.

….

Severus is presented with an interesting breakfast the next morning. Potter is dressed in scraggy work jeans and a long sleeved waffle-knit shirt. He looks like a farm boy, and he places a bowl in front of Severus with the mug of coffee. It's a baked apple with steel cut oatmeal inside, and brown sugar mixed in. Severus sits up in bed and balances the tray on his lap, inhaling the sweet sugar and cinnamon aroma from the oatmeal. Potter has brought up the Daily Prophet, which includes an article regarding the surge of children to Diagon Alley, searching for the lucky lightning bolt.

"This bed rest will not last long, Potter," Severus says, attempting to use his most menacing professor voice. His bruised lip softens the effect somewhat.

"You've three broken ribs and a healing leg. Humour me for a while longer."

Potter is leaning up against the footboard of the bed and eats his breakfast like a regular apple, the oatmeal oozing out when he bites.

"Speaking of humour, your little memoirs are rather light on that," Severus nods towards the chapter on his side table. He's not surprised when Potter stiffens.

"Not much of a ha-ha life, I'm afraid."

"Ah, I disagree," Severus starts, wincing at his deep breath. "Lucius Malfoy's face was quite amusing whilst explaining to the Dark Lord how he lost his house elf."

Potter smiles at this, and Severus brings up his hand to tick off his fingers.

"Lockhart trying vainly to outshine a twelve year old, Slughorn's involuntary spasm at the list of potions you've destroyed..."

"You're sadistic," Potter almost laughs.

"And you're guilty of involuntary manslaughter, at best."

Potter sighs and puts down his plate. Severus is done breakfast as well, and starts to unravel the bandage around his leg. The muscle that has been destroyed by Nagini's venom does not respond at all to magical remedies, and the broken leg bone is healing in stages.

"I know what I'm guilty of. Don't you, of all people, think that the wizarding world should know that their hero is flawed?"

Potter moves the plates off the bed and gets up on his knees, spreading out a new bandage and splint.

"I've spent seven years pointing out your flaws, Potter. Heaven forbid I begin ignoring them now."

"I don't think my poor heart could take it if you did," Harry replies. He stares at the very bruised leg and offers Severus the muggle pain pills he's brought up.

"Nonetheless, if you are going to publish the truth, I recommend you break the memories to your colleagues first."

Potter has picked up some muggle muscle rub from the pharmacy in town, likely when Severus was sleeping the day before. Severus reluctantly agrees to try it, as he does not wish to use up his daily spell allotment just on pain relief.

"You're right. Especially to Ron."

This time Severus manages to relax himself fully under Potter's gentle fingers, and he doesn't even blush when he gets hard from the close attention. Unlike the day before, however, Potter doesn't look away.

"I … do you want me to take care of that?" Potter gestures at Severus' midsection, as he sits back on his own heels.

"That is absolutely unnecessary," Severus snaps, suddenly feeling ridiculous and exposed in the scant material he's covered with. He wants to throw a blanket over himself but Potter is squeezing out the ache just above his knee and his ribs are still too sore for fast movement.

"I know it's not necessary," Potter quietly responds. He does not make eye contact with Severus, but he doesn't move either.

"I am perfectly suited to attending to my own needs," Severus clips out, a little less harsher than he'd like.

"You and me both," Harry smiles, but it's a distracted and embarrassed one. He scratches the back of his neck gently, where the scar is. "Sometimes, though, it's nice if someone else does the touching for you."

"So you've been planning this for a while?" Severus glares, his eyes narrowed and cold. It's an inherited habit of his to become nasty when uncomfortable, and though he's fully aware of it, it's not something he's ever tried to change. He cups his hand down to cover his groin, knowing it does nothing to draw the attention away.

"No! I…I don't think I'm queer," Potter assures. He sounds off balanced, and this makes Severus feel better. "It's just, it's been a long, dark war. Even worse for you than me. And I thought you might take a little joy, you know, if you closed your eyes…even if it was from me."

Severus stares at him, at the red blotches on his cheeks under the battered John Lennon glasses, messy hair flattened on the left side as that's what side he'd slept on. Despite this, Potter does not look like a teenage boy waiting for his first fumble in the dark. He looks like a man bargaining for comfort after being denied for a long time, and Severus knows that it's the most likely scenario. His two best friends had been courting a rocky course for a few years now, but any chance at companionship that Potter had built with the youngest Weasley had been ripped from his grasp with her obliviation.

Severus has been thinking too long. He starts when he feels a warm hand covering his own, but doesn't shake it off. Harry is keeping direct eye contact, stroking his thumb along Severus' own cupped hand. Severus hasn't felt this level of excitement with an erection in quite a while, and though the majority of his thoughts are yelling at him to stop the impropriety, he pushes those thoughts aside and slowly removes his own hand.

Potter takes this as permission, and flattens his palm, running it up the underside of Severus' cock. Severus does just what Potter had hinted earlier; he closes his eyes and just focuses on feeling. Potter hasn't done this before on a man, he doesn't think, as the movements aren't all together smooth. The fingers are firm though, and they know the rough pressure that is tolerable, even desirable. Slow strokes, up down up down, the material of his pants providing a strangely welcome friction, and the tip of his penis pokes out from under the elastic waistband.

"You're really hot," Potter says, and Severus cracks an eye open.

He's surprised that Potter's rough voice doesn't put him off. The statement is rather redundant, for Severus feels flushed all over and is anything but cold at the moment.

Another hand is placed on him, curious fingers spreading his pre-come over the exposed head of his cock while the strong stroking continues, harder and faster and harder and –

"Ahhh," Severus whispers. It's more of an exhalation of all the grunts and moans that he keeps withheld, and his eyes scrunch shut as his cock spurts. Severus is dimly aware of movement, feeling the come hot on his belly and his penis radiating heat as it softens. He opens his eyes and sees Harry looking rather desperate, hand down his own trousers as he fists himself. The movement is blurry and hidden by layers of clothing, but Severus does notice the minute relaxation in Potter's facial features as he comes, feeling the barrier release.

Potter is silent, and oddly catches his seed in a handkerchief in a very practiced movement that misses nothing.

"The Dursleys have a different definition of self-flagellation," Potter explains, nodding at the drying handkerchief in his hand. "And Petunia's always been good at spotting messes."

"That she has," Severus agrees carefully. Potter uses the towel he'd brought up to wipe his hands from the muggle cream as a cloth to clean up Severus, and sits back on his haunches again. His fly is still undone, part of his cock now resting against the jean material as it returns to it's usual size.

"Satisfied with your little experiment?" Severus asks, but he cannot bring himself to be nasty. He's just been brought off by a former student, and the feeling of disgust that should be rampant in his mind is surprisingly not there.

Potter cocks his head to the side and regards Severus.

"Yes. I feel human again."


	4. The Pumpkin Scone Conspiracy by oliversnape

Severus is declared fit enough to be up and mobile a day and a half after the fall. The very first thing he does is have a shower, but not before threatening Potter with his cane to get the boy out of the washroom.  It’s a small washroom, and a plastic chair has been shoved into the shower space to give Severus somewhere to sit when his leg is acting up.  He should be using it now, but he’s standing instead, letting the uneven but strong-pressured hot water break over his shoulders. The tile in the bathroom is a blue-ish grey, and does nothing to compliment the ugly green-yellow bruise covering most of his chest.

Using a bar of soap Potter had stolen from St Mungo’s, Severus idly washes himself as he goes over the conversation with the aurors from earlier that morning.  They’d returned seemingly triumphant, with a list of amendments to Severus’ sentencing. The four hours a week (and extra fifteen on Fridays) of time off his property had not changed, along with the restriction on his potion brewing. The cottage would stay exactly the same, and would continue to be resistant to magical means of improvement.  The spell limit had been raised to ten per day, and he’d been warned that anything above that would trigger a visit to ensure that it was Potter doing the magic, and not Severus.

The ministry had decided on a set value of rent per month on the property, and instead of checking every single thing that was bought or brought into the cottage, set the limit at this amount.  Severus figures it is more for Potter, as he is able to buy new things and better groceries from larger towns and bring them in. Severus runs his hands through his wet hair, already feeling the difference from the more expensive shampoo.

It was just this afternoon that Severus realized that the ministry has no idea how sneaky Harry Potter can be when he wishes to.  He’d arranged a deal with Shacklebolt to allow him a free three-hour window in which he could move his possessions into the cottage, and had arrived with a carriage full. Severus, who’d always had the idea that Potter had only owned enough to fill a trunk, found himself rather amused when he watched the boxes in the carriage being unshrunk to reveal a typewriter and his collection of books from Hogwarts and Spinner’s End.

Leave it to Potter to lie and say Severus’ books are part of his own belongings.

That’s where Potter is now, out in the garden field building a new set of bookshelves to go on the wall where the ladder is.  He isn’t very good at it, Severus thinks, as he wipes condensation from the shower window and watches a hammer fly.  But Potter is motivated, and Severus is aware that sometimes motivation is all that’s needed.

Severus returns his thoughts to the shower and starts to enjoy his last few minutes under the hot water, his hand sliding down the line of his hips to fondle himself as he closes his eyes. He doesn’t wank for very long, as his skin is getting prunish, his leg becoming sore, and Potter will be coming in soon for afternoon tea.  His feet slide apart on the tiled shower floor (ten tiles across, he counted his first day at the cottage), and the only seductive image he can conjure up in his mind is made of shadows.  As Severus watches the water swirl his come down the drain he is slightly unbalanced to realize that the orgasm Potter gave him felt much better than the one he’d just had.

….

Potter leaves after teatime to visit his two best friends. Weasley and Granger have been living in a flat in London, Granger learning sign language at an alarming rate as she tries to keep Weasley’s spirits up.  Harry has gone there this evening to share his memory of the forest, a pre-emptive move before he does anything with the memoirs he’s written.

Severus takes his biscuits to the rickety kitchen table, noting how silent the cottage is without Potter.  It’s just gone five, and the light is starting to fade through the kitchen window, leaving a cold dampness to the air that carries the scent of decomposing leaves.  Severus shifts restlessly in the chair, the bruising on his side is disappearing and he has a slight throbbing ache that runs from his neck down to his toes, furrowing out along his arm.  He takes a sip of his water with his left hand, not trusting the full glass to the shaky right, before putting the beverage down and shifting over the loose pumpkin recipe sheets that Potter has left on the table. He finds a book under the recipe for pumpkin curry, which he crumples up with his strong hand. 

_A Call to Order: Guilds and Tradesmen of Medieval London._

Several pages in the book are marked off, and Severus is not surprised to find Cardogan’s name listed amongst the members of the Merchant Taylors’ Company.  As a half blood family (though Severus has always argued that if one goes back far enough, every family is mixed blood), the Cardogans seem to be well established as fine clothiers in both the muggle and wizarding world.  What does surprise Severus, however, is the page that marks off the Prince family, and as scriveners no less.  Severus’ mother had been highly skilled in potions, like himself, and he had assumed it was their family specialty. Apparently not.

As fascinating as guilds are, Severus can’t quite bring himself to see what Potter’s interest with them is, as even though W. Terrence Cardogan is the member of a very established trade guild of London, he is the last of his line and the information seems a bit superfluous.  There are two maps in Potter’s book as well, one a recent sketch of Diagon Alley, with the shops marked off neatly in clear script, and one an older version.  It seems to be at least three hundred years old, as while the property lines have stayed fairly identical, the spelling of the shops has turned even further old fashioned.

Severus pulls out his whiteboard, the shorthand markings on it resembling an ancient form of cuneiform. He inputs the information on the guild that Cardogan belongs to, but things still don’t make much sense to him. Severus can understand someone wanting to use Harry Potter to make more money, as superhero and celebrity endorsements spawn ridiculous spending urges amongst the general public. What doesn’t make sense are the Victory sweets, and their alarming calming potions.  

Severus sits back in the chair, head resting against the far wall of the kitchen. The wall is slightly cold to the touch, though it’s not windy out tonight so sleep should come easy.  He closes his eyes to ponder, remembering Percy Weasley’s comment on the ‘restructuring meeting’ of Diagon Alley. Severus has never trusted the ministry fully, and he wonders if they’re keeping memories of the forest battle for investigation to see if a ministry employee did anything wrong. Potter has never told him who exactly had been held hostage, and who had been sent to free them.

He doesn’t get much time to think this over, however, as the door opens angrily and Potter stalks in, thrusting his cloak at the hanger.  He has a black eye, a split lip, a wad of papers in his hands that appear to have been fought over, and a high amount of nervous energy.

“What’s wrong with you?” Severus asks, sitting up in his chair and watching the storm on Potter’s face.

“Ron’s a fucking prat,” Harry spits back. He yanks open the icebox and rummages through the top shelf.  He finds an apple turnover in the bag that Severus has made for his own consumption, and Severus thinks for a moment that he’s going to use it as an odd icepack for his eye.  Potter draws his wand instead, and heats it up with a spell.

“Sorry,” he says, apologizing for the magic and not looking sorry about it at all.

“Are you going to continue storming about my kitchen, Mr Potter, or are you going to explain how a Weasley managed to beat up the hero of the wizarding world?”

Severus leans forward, catching the look of revulsion on Harry’s face upon hearing the nickname.

“He stupefied me, that’s how! I told him about what happened in the forest. I told them both, and I showed them the chapter,” Harry growls, slapping the papers down on the table. “Ron started yelling at me for calling him a murderer – of course he can’t hear me yelling back – and the next thing I know I’m stunned and a fist is flying at my face.”

Potter takes a bite of the apple turnover, spreading crumbs on the map and not noticing. Severus reaches over and grasps his wrist, stopping the spread of food.  He’s not surprised to find Harry’s pulse racing, but the hot skin is rather unexpected. Potter moves to pull his hand away, but Severus doesn’t let go.

“Did you explain?”  Severus grips hard and notices that Potter stops pulling.

“He wouldn’t let me. I tried writing a note, and he incendio’d it. I don’t care what he did, it wasn’t murder,” Potter asserts. 

Severus has a theory that Potter, who has been denied physical contact since he was a toddler, will calm down faster with the addition of touch. It’s either working, or his grip on Potter’s wrist is simply strong enough to prevent the boy from moving without a large struggle.

“You cannot verbalize spells, you idiot. He _burnt_ it. And I suppose you think your grenade was murder?” Severus probes.

“My actions aren’t up for discussion. You’ve read exactly what happened,” Potter glares. It’s almost completely ineffective on Severus.

“So I have,” Severus concedes, raising his eyebrow.

Potter sighs and slumps in his seat, loosening his posture and letting his arm slacken under Severus’ lighter grip.

“I don’t want to lose my best friend because of this.” Potter’s voice is soft now, and he’s looking at the bucket of harvested carrots by the door. 

“Oh, quit being so maudlin, Potter.” 

Severus stands up and walks towards the bookcases, where he pulls down an obscure and decades out of date medical wizardry book.

“What curse did Weasley get hit with?”

“Dunno. Something of Bellatrix’s,” Potter mumbles. “His ear drums were cursed out of existence.”

“Hmm,” Severus ponders.  He flips through several chapters until a moment later hitting upon what he was looking for.

“The Slytherin way of keeping friends, Potter, is by favour-baiting them.”

“Favour-baiting? What the hell does that mean?”

Severus places the book on the table and runs his finger down the ingredient list.

“Bring me these ingredients tomorrow, and we shall set up a brewing hut just offside the property lines. You, Mr. Potter, are going to brew Weasley a potion to regenerate his ear drums.”

Severus sticks a bookmarker in the book and squeezes Potter awkwardly on the shoulder. 

“Are you daft? I’m rubbish at potions.”  Potter blinks, turning to look at Severus. There’s a look in his face that Severus hasn’t seen since the very first day he’d ever laid eyes on an eleven year old Potter.  Potter _wants_ to do well at potions.

“Can you actually restore his hearing?” Potter asks, and he sounds hopeful like a playful puppy.

“No,” Severus answers bluntly.  “But it will do enough that should Weasley ever stupidly decide to pro-create, he will be able to hear his children screech.”

………

Two hours later, when Severus has finished sanitizing jam jars and Potter has retreated to the living room with another research book, there is a knock at the door.  There are no alert wards on the property that give Severus any warning, a drawback he finds extremely frustrating, but only Tolstoy and the auror visit him. And Potter.  Someone calling at nearly eight-thirty pm on a Monday night has Severus immediately on guard, and he answers the door with his wand drawn.

“Really, Mr Snape. Not a very polite way to answer the door, I should think.”

It is a strained voice that keeps the clipped tones of the well-mannered, and Severus is immediately reminded of the Malfoys.

“I am not expecting visitors,” Severus answers, not moving a muscle.

“I don’t suppose you would be, no.”  The voice belongs to a well-dressed gentleman in a very dark purple robe with black trim, short graying hair, and surprisingly plain brown eyes. The man steps forward and invites himself in, forcing Severus to take a step back whilst the man surveys the tidy cottage with distasteful curiosity.

“Mr Cardogan,” Harry suddenly says, rising from the couch and walking over. “I believe we’ve said all we needed to say out in public. There is no reason for you to visit me here.”

“Ah, Mr Potter. It is of no consequence, as I happened to be…in the neighbourhood, shall we say.”

He looks with disinterest to the battered chairs in the kitchen and Severus’ hand smooths out over his wand. His voice is nasal and annoying, his intonation slightly exaggerated and his pauses falling a syllable too early.

“I have come to verify your attendance to the statue unveiling in Diagon Alley on Friday.”

“I won’t be there,” Potter says, his jaw tense. 

Cardogan is standing by the front door still, hesitant to enter further into the cottage. He is standing beside the picture Severus put up of the Hogwarts lake, his precisely cut, impeccable midnight purple robes clashing with the worn black cloak hanging up to his left.  Severus notes that he is wearing an oddly shaped gold pin on his lapel.

“I’m afraid that’s not really an option we have entertained. You see, Mr Potter, we feel Diagon Alley needs a little livening up. And what better person than the hero himself to draw the crowds.”

Potter clenches his hands and stands ramrod straight by the ladder. Cardogan steps to the side, his eyes drifting around the room and falling upon the typewriter that Potter has set up in the living room on a rickety old side table.

“I refuse to be your side show, Mr Cardogan. You want to promote the Alley, you do it your damn self. And take my name off your stupid contests.”

Harry’s eyes are watching his every movement, but the typewriter area is clean and there’s nothing for Cardogan to find.  Potter has put away his conspiracy notes for the evening.

“Tsk, it doesn’t work that way, Harry. You wouldn’t wish to disappoint your parents by turning your back on the newly freed wizarding world they died for, would you?”

Severus crosses his arms and can see the tensing of Potter’s shoulder muscles as the boy takes a deep breath. Cardogan rests his hands lightly in his outer robe pockets, a move that looks anything but casual.

“You’ve earned it, I’d certainly say. Enjoy your fifteen minutes in the spotlight, have your picture in the paper, sign a few autographs.”

“I never wanted to be famous.” 

Potter is getting further agitated as Cardogan goes down the list. Cardogan returns his gaze to Potter, giving him a once over and looking disappointed with the results.

“And who knows, Mr Potter. Perhaps there’s even a girl out there for you with lower standards for heroes than your Miss Weasley.”

Severus gives himself credit, he side steps across the entryway and grabs Potter by the upper arm faster than he thought he’d be able to.

“Fuck you, you and your stupid association!” Harry yells, pointing his wand at Cardogan and straining against Severus’ grip.

“I don’t think you understand, Harry Potter,” Cardogan says, his nasal voice becoming several degrees harder than it was the moment before.  He has his own wand drawn now, a black wand with very ornate vine carvings up and down the length of it, and it’s pressing against Potter’s chest.  He carries the arrogance and look of a man who is over confident in a battle.  Severus doesn’t hex him merely because he feels the subsequent auror visit will not be worth it.

“Diagon Alley will come back to it’s full potential, and it will be with your help. Hogwarts will be supported as before. It is for the good of the wizarding world, after all, and that sort of thing seems to be your specialty,” Cardogan finishes, his nose held up.

Severus keeps a grip on Potter’s arm as he tries to read between the lines of Cardogan’s speech. He seems to be a very shrewd businessman, and Severus cannot help but feel that they are missing an important chunk of backstory. 

“You’re not here acting on behalf of your little shop keeper’s association,”  Severus says, squeezing Potter’s arm very slightly.

“I am always at my best to represent all of my associations,” Cardogan answers cryptically, before turning and opening the door to leave.

“Including the one represented by your pin? The Merchant Taylor’s Company, if I’m not mistaken.  What a fitting family guild for the owners of Twilfit and Tattings.” 

There is a moment’s silence in the cottage as Cardogan scrutinizes Severus.  Severus still has a strong hold on Harry’s arm, but Potter isn’t pulling away any longer. He’s stepped back towards Severus, his wand still drawn and pointed at Cardogan.

“Very good, Mr Snape, you know your history,” Cardogan sounds annoyed that Severus does.  “Though I can hardly imagine what a few merchant guilds and their holdings have any interest of yours for.”

“I’ve always enjoyed studying the powerful,” Severus says, narrowing his eyes at Cardogan, “I find their influence and ability to infuse themselves into a plethora of different businesses and situations to be rather entertaining.” 

Cardogan seems to take a second to collect himself before he sneers at Severus.

“A dangerous study, I should say, for a man like yourself.”  He looks to Severus’ forearm, where the dark mark is, but continues before Severus can properly insult him in return.

“Now that the war is over, however, it is befitting to cast aside the past and focus on the future,” Cardogan says with a wave of his hand.  “After all, one cannot change their family and its associations, don’t you agree, Mr Durs – my apologies, Mr _Potter_?”

Cardogan tips his head in a condescending manner as he steps out the door, shutting it forcefully and striding to the apparition point outside the property ward.

“Fuck him!” Potter curses, spinning away from Severus as soon as the door shuts. He stomps into the living room and stands by the bookcase, grasping his arms and hugging himself again.

Severus deadbolts the door and checks out the little window to see that Cardogan has left before turning to face Potter.

“Take a breath and quit riling yourself up. He’s trying to distract you.”

“What are you talking about?” Potter asks, and his voice is lower. He almost sounds petulant, but Severus hears it as wary. 

“For all his talk of not being able to change family or its associations – there is no law requiring him to wear the mark of his family’s guild. Especially a muggle one.”

Severus crosses the room and sits down on the couch, as it’s late and he no longer cares about being an imposing figure to Potter. Not after their intimacy.

“So why does he wear it? Because the muggle side of his family wants him to?”

Severus nods towards the guild book that Potter has brought to the cottage, suddenly glad that he’s read the sections Potter highlighted.

“The Merchant Taylor’s Company has been around for more than five hundred years. A lack of magic doesn’t mean a lack of power or influence.”

“You think that the muggle side of his family controls the wizard side?”

Severus narrows his eyes and picks at one of the loose threads on the arm of the chesterfield.

“Not necessarily in control, but undoubtedly an equal to the wizarding side.  Some families, Potter, are not repulsed by their muggle or magical relatives.” 

Potter tenses at this, a small movement that Severus is certain he wasn’t meant to see. Severus can see he’s struck a nerve.

“Tell me, Potter. Why does it matter what your muggles relatives thought of you?”

“It just does.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I had the impression that you wanted nothing to do with them.”

“I didn’t! I don’t…” Harry yanks a book from the bookcase and merely glances at the cover before putting it back. 

“But I once did. I once thought that if I behaved well enough, that they’d want me as a real part of their family. As stupid as that sounds.”

Severus is well aware of the desire to belong to something, and says nothing.

“I always thought I had a chance. Something about them cared, and that’s what I thought my chance was.”

“How on earth could you think that Petunia ever cared?”

“Because she potty-trained me. I was fifteen months old when Dumbledore dropped me on the doorstep. Someone had to change my diapers, someone had to teach me to walk, potty train me, teach me how to feed myself. I figured if she could care enough to do that, maybe I had a chance.”

Severus’ own father had been a practical man when it had come to potty training his son. He’d thrown a handful of cheerios in the toilet and told Severus to sink them, like it was a game. Severus spreads his arm out over the back of the couch and thinks about what Potter’s told him, making sense of the childish logic.  

“Sit down,” Severus finally says, pointing to the spot beside him.

“I figured it out though, when I got to Hogwarts,” Harry says, looking sadly triumphant. He does sit, and turns his body sideways to face Severus. “Petunia cared because the more I learned to do by myself, the less attention she needed to pay towards me.”

Severus had not forgotten Petunia’s selfishness, and he finds himself unsurprised with Potter’s verdict. He reaches over and grasps Potter’s legs, which are propped up on the coffee table, spinning Potter more towards him.  Ignoring the gasp from Potter, Severus starts lightly massaging the feet.

“What…what are you doing?”  Harry looks blessedly confused that someone would be massaging him voluntarily.

“An experiment,” Severus answers, watching the man’s face.  It slowly releases the suspicious look, but remains guarded.  Severus is curious to see if touch continues to calm Potter down.

Potter is a mixture of grateful and uncomfortable, and Severus can tell he’s wondering what this massage will cost him.

“How many people know that Miss Weasley chose to obliviate herself?”

Severus notes that Potter’s socks are actually very clean, and he wonders how Potter has managed to keep them that way after spending the day outdoors.

“Well, the Weasleys of course. The healers at St. Mungo’s, Professor McGonagall, and the rest of the Order.”

“Hmm.”  Severus massages the top of Potter’s foot, near where the toe joins the pad.  He smiles when Potter jumps at the odd sensation.

“Everyone else was told it was spell damage from the war,” Potter’s eyes are closed, and he’s fighting to relax himself.

“And yet, Cardogan spoke as if he knew she had chosen to forget you.” 

Severus suspects that Cardogan has a contact at the ministry, one who is aware of the memory investigation.  He has no proof, it’s just a gut feeling, so he doesn’t mention it to Potter yet.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Potter says, and Severus lets go of his feet. The anger is finally gone.  “She’s had a crush on me, I guess, since my second year, but I think the crush was more on the Boy Who Lived. ”

Potter has a smile on his face, not a happy one but not quite a sad one either, and he looks rather at home lounged on the battered chesterfield.

“Come,”  Severus says, and he pulls Potter up.  They maneuver their way to the ladder and both make it up the stairs, Harry moving mechanically and Severus limping ever so slightly.  Severus is determined to erase the self-doubt in Potter’s mind.

He pushes Potter onto the bed none too gently, crawling after him seconds later and pinning the man with his weight.  It’s strangely delicious the way Harry squirms beneath him, jeans sliding roughly against Severus’ woolen trousers and a socked foot rubbing against the back of his calf in surprise.  Severus has never done this with a man before, but he figures the basic steps are the same. He props his arms strongly besides Potter’s shoulders and leans down, inhaling the salty and very light sweaty scent of Potter’s skin. It’s not repulsive, and Severus gives a tentative kiss along Potter’s neck, just under the jawbone.

This gets him a startled gasp and a thrust of hips, which Severus takes as encouragement. 

He continues along Potter’s neck, jawline, cheeks, even his earlobes. He doesn’t kiss Potter’s lips, but the hands that are clinging to the back of his sweater tell him he’s doing all right without. The kisses are demanding and unyielding, though it seems that Harry does not mind.  Severus realises that he doesn’t, he knows that this is not a battle for dominance or power. It’s a question of belonging and security.

Severus licks the salty skin under Potter’s ear as his hips rhythmically thrust in the warmth and hardness of Potter’s groin, both cursing and appreciating the restricting texture of the clothing that holds them both in.  Harry’s legs are raised and open, cradling Severus strongly between them in a possessive grip. Harry’s hands are fisted in Severus’ short hair as he mouths obscenities that cause even Severus’ cheeks to tinge.

The bed protests with loud groans.  Potter is much quieter and comes with a hiss as Severus bites down on his shoulder, though Severus is not sure if the hiss would even translate in parseltongue.  He pushes this thought to the back of his mind and is close to his own orgasm when Harry moves his magnificent hand roughly down Severus’ back and palms Severus’ perineum.  Severus stills and exhales strongly, coming in pulses in his trousers as Harry’s fingers press harder against him.

“I hate the Boy Who Lived,” Severus mutters into the skin under Potter’s ear. 

“I’ve never been him,” Potter admits, his breath hot against Severus’ ear. “I’ve read about him though.”

“You belong here,” Severus finally answers, keeping Harry pinned under his weight for a good five minutes. Harry’s legs are clenched strongly around Severus’ waist, betraying the light handed strokes his fingers were parting along Severus’ spine.  Harry smells of musk and sweat, and the slight sweetness of the muggle pomegranate shampoo that Severus buys.

“No…No I,” Harry starts, and he shifts a little as if to get up.  Severus moves one of his hands down to grip tightly at Harry’s hip, above where he knows the scar from the barbed wire whip lays.

“Look at me,” Severus commands, and the green eyes startle.  “Here, with a bitter old ex murderer, an anonymous farm with pumpkins and apples, and very little magic.”

“And Tolstoy,” Harry breathes, never breaking eye contact with Severus.

“And Tolstoy.  You belong here, Potter, as long as you need to,” Severus finishes, leaning back onto his haunches and dragging his hand down Harry’s chest. He palms over Harry’s wet and sensitive groin, smirking at the gasp.  A thin but strong hand shoots forward to grasp Severus’ wrist, halting his movement.

“You could call me H, you know. If you don’t like the whole Harry Potter hero thing.”

Severus quirks his head to the side and raises an eyebrow, for the merest second missing the long hair that used to cascade down his neck when he used to do the same.

“I see now why they locked you up in the mental ward, Potter.”

Potter is said differently, in a tone of voice Severus has never used with Harry before. He says it softly, almost like the way he used to say Lily.

Harry gets the last laugh, however, after they’ve cleaned up, changed, and crawled back into bed.  He curls up behind Severus and experimentally kisses the bare base of Severus’ neck, causing a shiver to run straight down to Severus’ tailbone and for him to release a startled whimper he will refuse to admit for weeks to come. 

….

“I’ve finally figured out why the map looks weird,” Potter says over breakfast the next day. The map is spread out on the floor in the kitchen, the lighthouse-shaped saltshaker that Severus owns standing on the square of property that represents Twilfit & Tattings.  There is another lighthouse (a black one for pepper) standing in the middle of the alley, and the butter dish is holding open a fat book that sits atop The Leaky Cauldron.

“I was unaware that the map was off,” Severus comments, drinking his coffee. He has some free time today, as Potter had collected the last of the pumpkins from the vines the day before and Tolstoy won’t arrive until three.  The kitchen linoleum floor that Potter is sprawled out on is looking a bit rough, Severus notices, so perhaps he will scrub that today. 

“It is.  The property lines have not changed much, and you can see that most of the stores have been in the Alley since 1000 AD.  I always thought that the Alley was just that, an alley. But then I wondered who actually owned it, cause in muggle London, the city owns the roads and takes care of them.”

He points out the new map, which has Diagon Alley drawn not as an entity itself, but rather is a blank space left over between the shop properties.  Severus can now see that on the older map the Alley has been designated just like another property.

“Diagon Alley isn’t actually a road. It was made into one, but it’s actually a property owned by the Ministry of Magic. In 764 AD, it was listed as a residential property.”  

Potter looks triumphant, and enthusiastically bites a chunk out of his apple muffin.  Severus prefers scones, and he notes that Potter has warmed one up for him.  Eileen Snape had baked scones every Sunday morning, and together when he was a child they’d all had breakfast in his parents’ room, listening to the farm report on the wireless. 

“I had wondered why Percy Weasley told you there was a restructuring meeting regarding Diagon Alley last week. It wasn’t damaged in the war,” Severus says, spreading butter on his scone.

“No, it wasn’t.”  Potter looks like the proverbial light bulb has gone off, and Severus glances above his head to see if there’s one actually there. “A rather elusive way of saying they’re restructuring the ministry, isn’t it?”

“Is the ministry part of the Diagon Alley Shopkeepers Association?”

There’s books and paperwork on the table, overtaking Potter’s spot, and Severus carefully shifts through them.

“I think so,” Harry says, flipping through his own book on the floor. “But I’m not sure why they would be. They don’t own a shop there.”

“Au contraire, Potter. I believe you’ll find they’re at a rather precariously high-staked stalemate,” Severus says, running his finger over something in the book.

Severus takes the dishtowel that is hanging on the back of his chair and rolls it up, dropping it on the map over Diagon Alley. It covers the alley itself, and tiny bits of the fronts of the shops.

“The ministry cannot build anything on that land, as it is too small even for wizarding architects to do anything with. The shopkeepers do not want them to build on it either, and I think you’ll find that in order to prevent this, some money is being exchanged with the ministry.”

Potter looks up at him with a thoughtful expression.

“You think so? Like blackmail?”

“Perhaps more like rent.” Severus taps his chin with his wand as he peruses the list of the wealthiest wizarding families in England and cross checks it with the DASKA members. “Although, I’m beginning to wonder which side actually has more control over the other.”

“The ministry does, doesn’t it? I mean, if they built on the land, the shops would be bricked.” 

Potter stands up and stretches, leaving a gap between his jeans and t shirt.  Severus finds the furry belly that’s exposed rather curious to look at.

“Correct. However, the shops have a large monopoly over the wizarding market, and generate a ridiculous amount of revenue.  Have you ever questioned, Mr Potter, how Lucius Malfoy so strongly influenced the Ministry of Magic?”

Potter takes the breakfast dishes to the sink and shrugs. 

“Money.”

“Yes,” Severus agrees, “but I will wager you that he certainly did not pay a cent more in taxes than the rest of us.”

…. 

Potter plans to spend the day researching and typing up his memoirs. It’s a novel sight, and Severus comments that Potter should have perhaps attempted more research at Hogwarts. It’s a sign of how much the boy has changed, though, that he only laughs at the insult and swats Severus away.

Neither of them speak of their awkward frottage the night before.

Severus itches to get out of the cottage, however.  He’s been secluded away for five months now, and realizes that without Potter’s company he’d likely have gone mad by the end of November.  Tolstoy is a welcome presence in the house, but he doesn’t offer the same conversational stimulation that Potter does.  Severus smiles to himself as he finishes writing out the labels for his apple butter jars.  Tolstoy, who has called Severus ‘Rus’ since the first day they’d met, had overheard Severus one too many times and now calls Harry by his last name as well. It comes out as ‘Otter’, for some reason, and Severus refuses to correct him. 

“Stop pacing,” Potter calls from the living room. He’s spread his things out on the floor and a comfy fire is burning in the grate.  Severus thinks it looks very domestic, and it’s a sight he’d never come to expect in whatever home he’d end up with. 

“Do you have cabin fever or something?”

“Very funny, Potter,” Severus sneers. But he does, and he’s annoyed that there’s not a damn thing he can do about it.

“Just go out. Go to London, or make a potion, or do whatever you normally do when you feel barmy,” Potter says, waving his hand at Severus, though he never looks up from his book.

Severus rolls his eyes so hard that for a moment he feels a bit dizzy.

“Potter, I have a four hour window per week. How does your tiny little brain figure I am able to travel London of all places with that?”

This time Potter actually looks up.

“You have a wand, don't you? You can get there in plenty of time.”

“My magic only works at the cottage here, you dunderhead,” Severus says, gritting his teeth.

“I know that, I'm not stupid,” Potter snaps back, shaking his head.  “Take the Knight Bus, you’ll be there in ten minutes tops.”

Severus manages to look both revolted and considering.

“After all, foolish wand waving isn't magic, right?” Potter says with a smile.

…

The trip requires precise timing, seven sickles each way, a sufficient disguise, and a quick hike into town. Severus tells Potter that he’s going to the British Library to fetch as many books on guilds as he can, and spends twenty minutes in his outshed transferring two potions into water bottles to take with him.  Potter has agreed to go to the Wizarding Public Library in Diagon Alley to find any information from theirs. They have four hours before Tolstoy arrives.

Today Severus is wearing his best black dress slacks, a warm knit jumper that only has one snag discreetly covered by folding up the cuff of the sleeve, and three days beard growth that Potter spelled on him just off the cottage property ward. The stubble is itchy, but combined with the much shorter hair does much to subdue his large nose.

He is strangely comfortable with the fact that he no longer looks like an old fashioned wizard.

The Knight Bus picks him up, and in his grey rain slicker he is indistinguishable from any other muggle-raised wizard who boards the bus.  Severus keeps his eyes closed for most of the trip, as it passes the time faster and it’s the only way to avoid throwing up from motion sickness. Finally his stop is announced, and Severus steps out not far from the British Library, taking a deep breath of cold air that works through his system to settle his stomach. He watches confused tourists stream out of St. Pancras Station whilst he counts to twenty, and checks his watch. Seventeen minutes have passed since he ran to a far enough spot for the bus to pick him up in Kirkwell.  Severus checks the two water bottles in his rucksack, and holding his head up confidently, he enters the library. 

Severus is sure his cheeks are burning red as he carries his six books to a study carrel nestled between two thick support pillars.  It’s not exactly private, and the cover of one of his books is rather scandalous. The guild information books are rather boring by comparison.

“Severus Snape, stealing a book about homosexuals,” he mutters, withdrawing one of the bottles from his bag.  It’s a simple duplicating potion, something every NEWT student must prepare correctly to pass final examinations. The potion is useless on quite a few objects, such as currency and jewelry, however Severus did not waste his time obtaining his mastery for naught, and has corrected the potion to allow for a permanent reproduction of books. It’s also a form of magic he can do outside of his property, where his wand is useless.  In less than ten minutes he has a set of identical books stacked beside the British Library ones.  Another water bottle is removed, this one containing a shrinking solution, and the copies are reduced to the size of matchbooks. They are placed in a tin and shoved into his pocket.

Severus leaves the library seventeen minutes later, setting off the book detector as he passes through the gates. He is waved through upon a disinterested glance at the two bottles of what appear to be an odd juice in his bag, and the mint tin in his pocket. The bus drops him with plenty of time on the outskirts of Kirkwell, and Severus stops to purchase himself some coffee and a pastry before the walk home. 

The books are in his pocket, resting soundlessly in the tin, and he is frustrated at how unbalanced the one makes him feel. Unbalanced and rather ignorant, if the small glances he’d snuck into the book at the library had told him.  He is not a virgin, though Severus doesn’t rank the experience as spectacular or extraordinary.  He’s only had sex once, and he is of the opinion that young people are foolish and unskilled. These observations are what have led him to browse to that section of the British Library today, and though he is uncertain if anything will come of their unusual sleeping circumstances, in the off chance that things do progress to a more personal nature he will be prepared.  Educated, at least. 

Severus passes the gate to his property and feels relaxed as the wards settle around him and his intuitive timer shuts off. He’s arrived back with more than two hours to spare. There is a bottle of swelling solution waiting in the outshed, and perhaps he will peruse the queer book if Potter is still out. He appears to still be, as the light in the living room is out and only the single bulb in the front foyer is on.

Severus unshrinks the books with the swelling solution and takes them back into the warm cottage, settling on the couch in front of the fireplace. He lights a fire and settles in, telling himself that there is no need to be embarrassed by academic study. He knows it’s not purely for academic reasons though, and blushes slightly as he flips through the colourful photo pages, picturing himself in some of the positions.

Severus is comfortable enough within his own mind to admit that the past few mornings’ experiences, of waking up in the arms of Harry Potter and being nudged by the Boy Wonder’s rather eager erection, have been rather pleasant ones indeed. 

Severus remembers being Potter’s age, however, and knows that the morning erections are likely just from having a warm body to sleep beside. Potter has never really had anything sexual linked to him; at Hogwarts Potter’s reputation had him pegged as the sweet boy next door type, not even the Slytherins had fueled any bully rumours of him being homosexual. Severus is fairly certain he isn’t a homosexual either, but he plans to study the book and become knowledgeable regardless.  He’s not sure he can ever admit to Potter that his sexuality isn’t really a preference, but is borne out of the simple desire for human touch.  It is a very dangerous thing to admit.

….

An hour later, and after Severus has learned far more about the different subworlds of human sexuality than he ever thought he needed to know, the front door bangs open and Potter rushes in. He looks wildly about the cottage, not even registering the book that Severus has shoved under a blanket.

“Snape! You’re here, good. That’s good.”

Potter looks slightly panicked, and like he’s reassuring himself.

“Where were you?” Severus questions, wondering why Potter is so bent out of shape and why he seems to have walked off with the Income Tax Registration book of that year from the ministry. The gilded letters on the spine reflect the fire’s light and Severus can read the title quite clearly with the afternoon light in the room.

“Diagon Alley,” Potter answers. He drops the book on Severus’ armchair and unwinds his scarf, his sleeve turning inside out as he pulls his coat off.  One of Potter’s shoes is half undone, and he looks as if he’s run through a wind tunnel.

“Walter Terrence Cardogan was just murdered outside of Flourish & Blotts.”

Severus blinks and stares at the wild green eyes.

“Murdered? As in killed by an unforgivable?”

Potter nods and drops his scarf to the floor, where it covers part of the map he’s left out.

“By an auror.”


	5. The Pumpkin Scone Conspiracy by oliversnape

Potter pulls Severus’ requested potion ingredients from his pockets and places them on the coffee table, before using some stones that he’s collected from outside to represent people on the map.  He re-enacts the murder as he remembers it, and Severus is disturbed by the lack ordinariness of it.

“They’re getting ready for that stupid statue unveiling, and a lot of people have been in the bookstore to see if they can find the lightning bolt there.”

Potter rubs his neck again, where the scar is. Severus prefers this nervous habit to the fingers running through his messy hair.

“Was he shopping in Flourish & Blotts, however? Or merely conducting business with another member of his little shopkeeper’s association,” Severus ponders as he looks over the map on the floor. 

“Not shopping,” Harry replies thoughtfully, “he had a attaché case with him, and he looked annoyed.”

“We shall need to research how many enemies Mr Cardogan had,” Severus announces, pulling forth the tax record book Harry had put on the table.

“Right, this might help.”

Severus watches as Harry lifts up a small beaded bag that he’s brought with him, one that looks remarkably like a woman’s purse. It appears to have seen many better days, and Severus thinks it clashes horribly with Potter’s blue blazer.

“Potter, are you sure you’re not –” Severus starts, smirking at the mock annoyed expression he gets.

“It’s _Hermione’s_ bag. We used it all last year.”

He withdraws several useful texts – Severus immediately thumbs through _Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy_ – and gives a triumphant gasp when he uncovers a Fry’s Chocolate Cream bar.

“And does Miss Granger know you have purloined it?”

Harry unwraps the bar and breaks off a rather large piece, nearly missing his mouth as he eats it.  He offers Severus a piece with a smile.

“She’s a smart girl. She’ll figure out where it went.”

They spend the next fifteen minutes perusing the books, trying to see if Cardogan had any enemies worthy of suspicion.  The only thing found, however, is that Cardogan was master of the wizarding section of the Merchant Taylor’s Company guild.

“See if there are any other wizarding guilds in Diagon Alley,” Severus orders, fetching his muggle history books and starting to search the section near the turn of the millennium. 

“I think I’ve figured out how the Victory Frogs came to be,” Potter says, with a grin on his face. “And I know why Diagon Alley always seems to stock what the students are most interested in.”

“It’s called marketing, Potter,” Severus interrupts with a roll of his eyes. He sitting relaxed on the couch, his one bad leg elevated up onto the coffee table. Potter is spread out on the floor, books haphazardly overlapping the property lines on the map.

“It’s also called spying, Snape. Remember how I told you that the Cardogan family had picked up the R somewhere along the way?”

“Get to the point.”

“You’ve never met Sir Cadogan’s portrait at Hogwarts, have you? The mental knight who guarded our tower in third year, and kept giving us impossible passwords. Apparently, he’s Cardogan’s great grandfather.”

Severus taps his book with his finger and narrows his eyes. 

“And he was also part of the Merchant Taylor’s Company,” Severus states.

“Correct,” Potter smiles. “It’s like printing your own money. Hear what the kids are talking about, have it ready in the stores for when they get there.”

Severus allows him a moment of gloating before he points out the passage he’s been reading.

“Yes, very well, Potter, but it doesn’t explain why Cardogan was murdered. This, however, is rather interesting.”

Severus rotates the book so Potter can read it, and looks smug as the words sink in. Potter begins to drop the bags of ingredients on the map’s property lines, much like a card player dividing up his chips.

“Twenty-seven shops in Diagon Alley,” Potter murmurs.

“And seventeen different muggle-wizard mixed guilds,” Severus finishes.

…..

When Tolstoy arrives they head outside, Severus taking Tolstoy to the garden whilst Potter works on the potion for Weasley.  He’s set up a bench in a protected shelter, and works from notes Severus has written. It’s like following the Half-Blood Prince again, and Harry finds himself at ease. 

The vegetables have all been harvested now, and Severus is using Tolstoy’s help to mend the fence that sections off the garden. He hasn’t had a problem with many animals, but Severus is stringing up chicken wire to save himself the trouble come spring.  Tolstoy is not particularly good at helping, as he has absolutely no co-ordination tying off the wire to the posts, and Severus doesn’t trust him with the wire snips. His own mind is occupied with the list of guilds he’d found in the book earlier, and he doesn’t realize he’s been muttering the names of them under his breath until Tolstoy starts repeating them. It’s an imperfect repetition, however, as he’s switched the order.  Tolstoy puts the Salter’s Company first, followed by the Stationers, and then the Merchant Taylors.

Severus is just contemplating using an axe on a knotty stump that the wire refuses to tie to when he hears Tolstoy hooting.  It’s a strange noise, not one he’s made before, but a surprisingly accurate owl impersonation.  Severus sees why he’s doing it as he looks up and notes a tiny fluttering owl barreling through the ministry ward toward him.

Severus recognizes the owl as one that had visited Potter at Hogwarts, but he cannot fathom why it’s come to bother him.  Severus accepts the note from the over-exuberant bird, after threatening it with his cane.  The note is small, and surprisingly written in the same shorthand that Severus uses.  He knows that Potter had only discovered this habit after imposing his presence at Severus’ cottage, and figures that Potter must have told Granger about it, for this is indeed Granger’s writing.

“Thank you for everything. I’m sure Harry’s mum would have forgiven you by now.”

Severus can almost hear the chirpy annoying voice of Granger reading out the words, and he sees red. Not the powerful bull charging hue, but the orange-y metallic rust colour that used to make him motion sick as a child when his dad drove him to primary.

“Tolstoy, go inside and make tea,” Severus says, dropping his tools in the small tray he’s brought out.  

“Go inside and make teaaaaa,” Tolstoy repeats, standing up and walking in, without a glance at Severus. 

Severus waits until he gets to the door, before storming off towards where Potter is brewing.

…….

“Potter! What the devil did you tell them?” Severus snarls, thrusting the letter up in the air. He’s standing just on the line of the property, inches from setting off the timer.

“What the hell are you talking about? Tell whom?” Harry asks, looking bewildered.  There’s a large purple stain on his sleeve and a leaf in his hair, but he looks remarkably composed for having brewing a complicated potion.

“Why does Miss Granger feel it necessary to judge my penance?” Severus hisses, speaking through his clenched teeth.  He has the satisfaction of seeing Potter turn white.

“And why does she think your mother’s forgiveness means anything to me?”

“I don’t know,” Potter stammers, putting the vial down that he’s just filled. He looks like a cornered student who hasn’t studied for the day’s lesson, and standing behind a table with a cauldron isn’t helping.

“All I told them was what happened when I met you in the headmaster’s office.”

Potter is smartly staying on the outside of the property line, outside of Severus’ reach.

“If I am understanding this correctly, you shared my private memories of my friendship with your mother – which I only gave you as I thought you were about to die – with Weasley AND Granger?” 

Potter has a knack for driving Severus into apoplexy, and he tells himself that this time there is no real need to ensure Potter stays alive at the end of this argument.  The Dark Lord isn’t coming back.

“You didn’t tell me they were private!” Potter spits back, apparently remembering that he’s no longer a student and no longer bound by Hogwarts rules. “Excuse me for giving them some justification for why I was taking your orders.”

He roughly shoves the bottle into his jacket and folds up the brewing instructions.  Still just slightly out of Severus’ range, Potter seems oblivious to the raised fist.

“Yes, Potter, because I took so well to you snooping into my pensieve during occlumency lessons.”

Severus’ voice sounds even deeper, if possible, and his cold eyes are glittering with anger. Potter stares right back though, his own gaze hard.

“You had your own personal flat at Hogwarts. How hard would it have been to lock the pensieve in there?” Potter challenges.

“You shouldn’t have snooped, you little shit!” Severus spits.

“I was fifteen! Fifteen year olds are stupid, as you well know,” Potter defends. “Though now I know why that was one of your worst memories. Did Mum cast you away after you called her a mudblood? Did she make you run to your little death eater friends?”

Potter’s voice is sneering, and Severus’ hand itches to slap him. The property line is almost visible now, as their anger is sparking and the ward is humming with interference.

“Neither of your parents made me a death eater, Potter.” 

Severus is triumphant sounding at this.  He would not give James Potter the honour of having driven him to make such a costly mistake as a teenager.

“No? Why did you become one then, Snape?” Potter vanishes the potion ingredients from the table and steps up to face Severus, the heat between them almost shared. “The benefits were good?”

Sarcasm does not become Potter. Severus draws his wand and runs over the list of allowed spells in his mind. It seems that Potter is doing the same, and arrives at the conclusion that Severus cannot do much damage. Not magically, in any event.

“That’s why you don’t want people knowing, isn’t it?” Potter asks, his voice even as he points at Severus.  “You did everything because you loved my mother. And she didn’t love you back.”

Potter has come close enough that Severus can finally grab him, a fist full of the boy’s shirt collar in his hand as he yanks a struggling Potter back onto the property.

“What on earth would you know about love?” Severus says in slow and deliberate tones, his sneering face inches from Potter’s. “You’re no Lily Evans.”

“Believe me, Snape,” Harry growls back, wrenching free of Severus’ grasp and looking a mixture of angry and rejected. “I know I’m not.”

He stumbles back across the property line, and before Severus can curse him, disapparates.

…….

Severus’ leg is acting up from the cold outdoor work, and so he takes his tea in the living room.  Tolstoy likes the kitchen, and decided to remain there whilst he counts and recounts the jars of apple butter on the table. The colouring book that Iain sent him with sits abandoned and unadorned by the window.

Severus is slowly going through chapters of Potter’s memoirs, as he had promised to copyedit them and he knows this is the best way to edit out any information that he doesn’t want Potter to share.  Highly aware of Potter’s study habits, Severus is certain this is the only copy of the memoirs, and that Potter will be back for them.  He has yet to reach the chapter in which Potter finds him in the castle before the battle.

There is a rustling noise from the pantry, which would almost make him think that there are mice getting into the stock of flour and rice, but he went over the room in August and knows for a fact that nothing can get in.  He remains on the chesterfield, marking the manuscript with a short red pencil and waiting to see if Tolstoy will give away what he’s up to just by the sound.

It only takes another five minutes, just after Severus hears a slight giggle from the pantry.  It’s just off the front entryway, and as he’s standing to fetch his mother’s old dictionary from the bookshelf he sees Tolstoy kneeling on the floor, the big jar of kidney beans that Severus uses for pie weights in front of him. One sleeve is rolled up and the other down, a grin on his face as he dips his hands in the beans and watches them run through his fingers.

“Tolstoy!”

Severus’ admonishment is met with more giggles, and the continuous sifting of beans. 

He edges into the room and confiscate the jar of beans, firmly fastening the lid and putting them back on the shelf.  He leans down and helps hoist Tolstoy up to his feet, and Severus is rather surprised to find that Tolstoy doesn’t mind his touch.  Tolstoy hums loudly and contentedly though, and leads Severus out of the pantry and back towards the kitchen.

“Alright, Tolstoy. We shall make dinner.”

Severus abandons the chapter on the table, and has his own one-sided conversation with Tolstoy whilst making dinner.  Severus has a hard time choosing what to make, and he’s well aware that he has become spoiled in the short time that Potter has been cooking for him. 

…

Tolstoy is comfortably ensconced on Severus’ chair by the fire after dinner, reading P0tter’s book on London guilds and completely ignoring Severus.  The cottage is eerily quiet without Potter there to stride loudly back and forth on the worn wooden plank flooring.

The oven timer rings as Severus turns to the chapter regarding his capture at Malfoy Manor.  Potter is a surprisingly good typist, and Severus is not sure where he’s picked up the skill, but he has heard the boy curse his aunt whilst hacking away on the typewriter, so he assumes it’s got something to do with her. 

He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d forced him to learn, if only to help with a chore.

Severus brings his wand out to silence the oven alarm, and watches carefully to see if Tolstoy is paying him any mind. He’s only sterilizing canning jars, but Severus does not like to risk hot glass in an oven any longer than necessary.  The incantation is short, and Tolstoy lifts his head to see the downward swing of Severus’ wand. Severus freezes, wondering if he can pass off the wand as a large pencil, however he is curious to note that Tolstoy either doesn’t see it, or seems to be completely un-phased by the magic.  Indeed, he returns back to his reading, as if the ringing alarm is the only thing to have disturbed him.

The fire is burning warm, and Tolstoy is chanting out a list of guild members in his chair. Severus returns to Potter’s writing, where he is surprised by the hesitation young Malfoy showed upon attempting to identify Potter. There are more typos in this section, and Severus can almost read the anxiety Potter must have felt in the words.

His concentration is broken again by Tolstoy climbing down onto the floor, his book apparently abandoned on the seat.  Tolstoy hovers over the map of Diagon Alley, picking up the ceramic tooth pick holder and skipping it down the street like a shopper.  He repeats the list of guilds that Severus had mentioned earlier, and this time his re-ordering makes a lot of sense.  Tolstoy starts with the Salter’s Company again, keeping his figure on the Diagon Alley road, and then hits Flourish & Blotts as the Stationers, Twilfit & Tattings as the Merchant Taylors, the Haberdashers at Madame Malkin’s, all the way to Potage’s Cauldron Shop.

“Ironmongers,” Tolstoy says, looking up and meeting Severus’ eye. He places the toothpick holder on the cauldron shop and looks pleased with himself.

The game, if Severus could call it that, is interrupted by a knock at the door.  Tolstoy immediately gets up to answer the door, stopping right in front of it to repeatedly ask who the caller is.

Iain offers a warm smile as he stands in the doorway, dressed in comfortably brown corduroys and a black cargo jacket.  He looks like a man who properly works the land he lives on, much like Severus now does.

“No trouble, eh?” Iain asks, nodding towards Tolstoy.

“None,” Severus answers, holding up Tolstoy’s jacket for him to step into. “Well, perhaps except for getting into the kidney beans.”

Iain merely chuckles. 

“Siftin’ it? He does the same with flour.” Iain’s brogue is thick, but it carries no malice and he smiles at his grandson all the same.

“I shall ensure to lock the pantry henceforth,” Severus gives a small smile, coming out a little crooked. “Good bye, Tolstoy.”

“G’bye Rus,” Tolstoy answers, staring through the front door with his hand on the handle. He does not turn around.

He waits a moment, as if listening to the reply of someone else, before speaking again.

“G’bye Otter,” Tolstoy answers, in the same robotic monotone. 

Severus has an amused sneer on his face, one that matches Iain’s slightly, even though Potter isn’t there. Tolstoy had not seen Potter apparate out earlier, thankfully, and seems to think that he’s within hearing range somewhere else in the cottage.

“Reminds me,” Iain starts, putting his hand on the top of Tolstoy’s shoulder. “I need someone to watch him Thursday evening for a few hours. Do ye mind?”

Severus has no problem with this, as Tolstoy is quiet and easy to watch. He gives a slight nod, mentally cataloguing what tasks he has set for Thursday.

“That won’t be a problem. Another business meeting?” Severus asks.

“Rescheduled.  Death in the oldest family I work with, you know how it goes,” Iain smiles, his eyes twinkling under the bare entryway bulb in a much too familiar way. 

“I do,” Severus concedes, remembering what a death in the family meant at a death eater meeting – usually the entire family was eliminated.

Tolstoy returns to the living room suddenly, where he picks up a toy car of his that he’s left on a stack of manuscript.  The map of Diagon Alley is fortunately out of Iain’s view, on the other side of the coffee table, as Severus notes Iain’s eyes sweeping over the living room and taking in what he sees.

It’s a very meager cottage, and Severus thinks Iain can tell this by the threadbare chesterfield and the newspaper stuffed into the corner of one of the windows.

“Writin’ a book there, lad?” Iain suddenly asks, spying the manuscript on the coffee table and politely not mentioning the rundown condition of the cottage.

“Editing,” Severus says, giving a wry smile.

“My colleague runs a publishing house, if ye want me to put in a good word. His dad was a friend of my dad, sort of thing. What’s it about?”

Severus meets Iain’s gaze and gives nothing away as he responds calmly.

“Recipes. Apple pie, squash soup, cinnamon oatmeal bread, apple butter, pumpkin scones.”

Iain gives a look of vague interest, and leads Tolstoy out the door. 

“Let me know if ye want to publish it. Till Thursday, then!”  

Severus leaves the front porch light on as they walk up the path towards the road, Tolstoy walking in an impeccably straight line and Iain moving surprisingly fast with his cane.

….

Severus is neither a night owl nor a morning person, but as Potter is gone he feels the strange urge to fill the cottage with some sort of light late at night. It’s not actually that late, it’s only ten, but as he awakens at seven he considers it late enough.  The upstairs attic room is freezing, and so he remains downstairs as long as he can, soaking up the warmth from the fire.  His peace is interrupted by footsteps, and an impatient knock on the door. Severus flicks his wand, blithely disregarding the magic impositions on him.  It opens and Potter steps in, much calmer than he was earlier.

Severus stares at him from the chesterfield, where he is surrounded by the paperwork describing Potter’s year in exile.  Severus flicks his finger towards Potter, mentally encanting one of the few spells he perfected wandlessly as a teenager.

“If you expect to stay here again, Potter, you’d best prepare yourself for some groveling,” Severus says, watching as Potter is flipped upside down and yanked up into the air. 

“Agh!” 

Severus watches as Potter scrambles to keep hold of a box he’s brought, and is impressed when the boy catches his falling wand with his left hand.

“Hilarious, Snape. I’m not apologizing.”

Potter looks at him as if he’s lost his mind. He’s been scratching at his neck, Severus can see the skin where the scar is is very red, and the glasses are starting to slide off his nose.

“It appears we are at an impasse, then,” Severus comments in an icy calm tone.

“Yeah?” asks Potter, and he sounds less keyed up than earlier in the day, though he’s still thick on the sarcasm. “Not going to tell me you didn’t mean what you said about me being less than my mother?”

Severus looks bewildered as he watches Potter slowly spin above the entranceway. 

“Why on earth would I say something I didn’t mean?”

“Novel concept, I know- Snape, let me down for fuck’s sake, I’m getting dizzy!”

Severus nods his head slightly at that and watches Potter crash to the floor, managing to shove the box to the side so he doesn’t land on it.

“I brought you fresh fruit you miserable old sod, fresher than you’ll ever get in Kirkwell.”

He holds up the box, but Severus doesn’t move except to glare.

“I’m hardly old, Potter.  And what are you insinuating with the fruit?”

Potter looks puzzled.

“Nothing? You’re the only Professor who had a fruit bowl in their office. Everyone else had candy. I thought…well, don’t you like fruit?”

Severus stares a moment longer before nodding his head stiffly towards the couch. Earlier in the evening he’d been completely prepared to cast the boy from his life, but he’s slightly unbalanced at the thought that _Potter_ of all people noticed his snacking habits.

“We won’t mention her, yeah?”  Potter offers, and Severus considers this for a moment. 

“Why did you come back?”

“I was being followed,” Potter says, dropping the Evening Prophet onto the table near Severus.  Severus can see that the front headline is regarding Cardogan’s murder, and that the auror responsible has been described as under stress still from the war.

“By the mysterious persons again?” Severus deadpans, skimming over the newspaper.

“No, by that auror there,” Potter says, pointing at the newspaper photo. He takes the box of fruit into the kitchen, and Severus hopes there is enough room in the fridge and cabinets for storage.

“Is he not under arrest?” Severus snaps, eyes scanning the article faster now.

“Doesn’t seem to be,” Potter answers, munching on a biscuit left over from Tolstoy’s visit. “Do you think the book will be ready to publish on Thursday?”

Severus puts the paper down and glares at Potter as he puts away the books Tolstoy took out.

“You’re pushing it, Potter.”

“I want them ready to go for Friday. I don’t want that statue going up with people not knowing what happened. We were losing the war, Snape.”

“I make no promises,” Severus says, interrupting Potter before he could get properly going.

Potter moves the first two chapters of his memoirs off the chesterfield and plunks himself down beside Severus, propping his feet up on the couch and relaxing. It’s not quite large enough for him to fit on his own side, and his leg rests fully against Severus’.  Severus picks up the manuscript again, red pencil pausing over the Dark Lord’s name as he stares.  

Potter is looking warily at him, shoulders squared as he waits to see if the contact is acceptable.

“Your feet are freezing cold,” Severus finally says, placing his own feet up on the coffee table as well.

“The kitchen floor is drafty,” Potter explains, relaxing back into the couch.

Severus doesn’t argue with that, as the kitchen feels like an ice rink early in the morning now and he is very familiar with how feet react to that.

“When did Iain pick up Tolstoy?”

“Around seven.” 

“Hmm,” Potter nods, reading over the copyediting marks that Severus has already littered the page with. “Doesn’t Tolstoy have school in the morning?”

“I would assume so.  I am no longer anyone’s Head of House, however, so it is beyond my concern.”

Severus leans forward to strike a word from the bottom paragraph and is started when a warm finger catches the hair that’s fallen forward and hooks it back behind his ear. The finger traces down his jaw, causing Severus to twitch at the shiver that shoots down his spine. 

“What does Iain do? He sells stuff at the market, like you do, doesn’t he?”

The question startles Severus, as he’s expecting Potter to say something about the touch, about Severus’ oily hair, about his rough skin…something. He’s a bit embarrassed to be touched like this, caressed as if Harry actually is sincere in his interest, instead of just looking for comfort.

“He sells my produce, yes, as well as his own preserved meats and fish.  He is a retired chemist, if I remember correctly.”

“Oh, he’s the one that gave you the huge jar of preserving salt in the pantry?” Potter asks. He’s dropped his hand back into his lap, but his leg is still pressed against Severus’

Severus nods, finishing the last paragraph.  He skims back up to the top, tapping his pencil against a line.

“ _It was horrifyingly gratifying to know they were nothing and everything like I imagined_ ,” Severus reads, noticing as Potter starts scrunching his fingers up.

The chapter details the imprisonment of Potter, and it’s not easy to read about Granger’s screams for help.  As much as the students at Hogwarts annoyed the piss out of Severus, he has never wished them physical harm. Most of them. 

“It could have been a lot worse,” Potter says, and it sounds to Severus like he’s reassuring himself of that.

“I was given to believe that you had seen some of our meetings, through your connection to the Dark Lord,” Severus asks, thinking over how many times he’d been lectured by the headmaster about the famous scar.

“One or two, only when Voldemort didn’t hide his thoughts. I don’t actually know what happened during those meetings,” Potter is now drawing patterns on the jeans atop his thighs, swirling circles with his forefinger. 

“I used to wonder about it. Some mornings, during Defense, you’d sit there looking like death warmed over, barking at us. I used to wonder about what happened, whether Voldemort tortured the death eaters too.”

Severus puts the papers on the coffee table, as they’re done for now until they are re-typed. 

“He terrorized us,” Severus confirms, “the actual torture was saved for the prisoners.”

It has gone dark outside, the window betraying blackness that has overtaken Severus’ little dell and their memories.  Severus has never actually told anyone what happened during the meetings, not even Dumbledore received those details, as keeping them to himself means that Severus doesn’t need to justify his stupid decision to join the death eaters.

“Just the cruciatus, right? And…and the killing curse?” Harry asks, this time looking to watch Severus answer.

“Nagini sometimes had a little fun,” Severus says, keeping his voice neutral.  Potter seems to let out a dry laugh at this, which is almost a half hiccup- half sob. It’s a strange sound, and Severus can hear relief in it. He quirks his eyebrow, awaiting explanation.

“I’m not a virgin anymore, Snape,” Potter says, sounding as if he can’t believe it’s true.

Severus continues to stare at him.

“Congratulations, Potter. In regards to this auspicious event, I regret that I have no gift to mark the occasion.”

“Very funny,” Potter scratches the side of his face absentmindedly, where the side burns are shaved unevenly.  He looks rather anxious. “I’m not a virgin because of what I thought about Voldemort.”

“Potter,” Severus warns, shaking his head at the disturbing mental image that he has.

“No!” Potter chokes out, putting up his hands and showing them palms out. “Not what I meant. I didn’t know what happened at the meetings, and I wasn’t sure what Voldemort would do if he ever caught me. Or let the death eaters do.”

Severus can clearly see this thought process, as it is eerily similar to one he’d had as a twenty one year old, as a brand new spy giving up the attack information to Dumbledore.

“I had sex with Ginny last year,” Potter says, and he sounds proud of himself for the choice. “Now my first time will always have been a good one. I wanted that, just in case I was captured and the death eaters….if they did something else.”

Severus reaches over and clamps his hand over Potter’s mouth, because he doesn’t want to tell Potter that it was a valid fear to have. 

“The Dark Lord was not interested in sex. He was only interested in power,” Severus says, leaving off there. Voldemort might not have wanted sex from anyone, but Fenrir Greyback had been a twisted fuck and was sometimes kept on a short leash because of it.

Potter removes his hand, holding it gently between his own and studying it. Severus’ hands are ordinary, he thinks, long, slightly stubby near the knuckle but narrowing out, and contrary to popular believe, not stained. Severus is a meticulous potioneer and cook, and he prides himself in his very neat ingredient preparation.

“Some people say that sex is power,” Harry mentions idly. He puts his hand up against Severus’ palm, and doesn’t seem surprised at all to find his own measures up smaller. 

“And yet, it also leaves one extremely vulnerable,” Severus remarks, standing up and turning to bank the fire for the night.

….

Potter follows him back up to the attic, shivering at the cold air.

“I thought heat was supposed to rise,” Potter grumbles, rubbing his hands together.  He’s got a small knapsack with him, and Severus assumes it contains fresh underpants for a few more days.

“There’s nothing to keep the heat in,” Severus replies, his voice dripping with annoyance. 

“Ah. There wasn’t. There is now,” Potter contradicts, the grin on his face rather childish.  He drops the bag on Severus’ bed and with draws several packets of what looks like aluminium foil wallets.  He’s also got an industrial stapler, which he places aside as he rips into the foil packets.

Severus is torn between watching the idiot and collecting his pajamas, in order to spell them with a heating charm.

“Did you raid some sort of space equipment store?” Severus asks, raising his eyebrow.   Potter has opened the packets and unfolded the foil, and Severus can now see that it’s the special survivor blankets that hikers and marathon runners use.  He watches as Potter climbs onto the unsteady dresser, dragging one sheet and the stapler with him.

“Camping store, actually,” Potter answers.  Severus would offer to help, however it’s much more amusing to watch Potter struggle to hold up the foil blanket and not staple his thumb to the rafters. “Much cheaper.”

“So we’re going to be sleeping under some garishly metallic circus tent,” Severus comments, rubbing his cold hands together and watching the show. 

“No-”

“Wrapped up like baked potatoes,” Severus continues as Potter climbs to the bed and nearly trips over another blanket.  The room is very small, and Potter will only need four or five sheets to cover the entire ceiling. He’s going all the way to the top, leaving a foot at the bottom of the rafters uncovered to let moisture escape.

“I got a letter from the new leader of DASKA this afternoon,” Potter says, distracting him in his usual non-subtle way.

“That’s suspiciously quick. Cardogan only died this morning,” Severus says, taking the bait. 

Severus is standing against the bed frame, watching Potter stretch to attach the foil sheet. His stomach is bared a little, as the shirt and jumper ride up with his arms.

“I know. And it’s not signed by an actual name. But they wanted to confirm my attendance on Friday.”

“The main organizer of the event is murdered in broad daylight in Diagon Alley, and they want you to spearhead a ceremony three days later.”

Severus is using his ‘you must be a moron tone,’ but this time it’s not directed at a specific action of Harry’s.

“I’m going,” Harry says, stepping down onto the floor and refilling the stapler. “I talked to Ron earlier today and he pointed out something that Percy had mentioned to Hermione.  The ministry didn’t actually commission the statue. They didn’t want anything to do with it.”

“Well of course not. It sounds hideous.”

“He says thanks for the potion, by the way. He’s going to try it tonight with Hermione.”

Severus watches Harry climb back onto the dresser with the last sheet of foil.  The room resembles the inside of a Zeppelin, and Severus is doubtful that it will help much.

“Mmh,” Severus hums distractedly.  “I would think the ministry would be rather in the middle of some sort of post-war ceremony. It would be a large money grab for their damaged coffers.”

Potter slips on the dresser, falling back towards the centre of the room. Severus acts fast and grabs him, his strong arm holding Potter’s hip and his fingers splayed over the man’s arse. 

Potter looks down, blushes, and inexplicably tightens his muscles.

“Shameless, Potter,” Severus says, though he’s amused. He ups the ante and squeezes his grip. “It figures you’d be a bottom.”

Potter pushes back very slightly into Severus’ hand, and finishes stapling the last of the foil sheets to the rafters.

“I’ve no idea if I’m a bottom, Snape. I think I’d be more of an equal opportunist.” 

His smirk is wide, and Severus can see only a little bit of nervousness in his expression, mixed with anticipation.

“Would you really? Shall we test that claim?” Severus is not quite sneering; this is as close to non-malicious teasing as he gets.

“We…we could,” Potter replies quietly.  The blush is still strong on his cheeks, but Severus can see this time that he is serious.  He resists the urge to use legilimency to ensure Potter isn’t planning to humiliate him, as Potter has been staying here for more than a week now and Severus is quite certain that Potter is honest in most of his intentions.

After a moment’s consideration, Severus steps back to allow Potter space to jump down from the dresser. 

“I’ll warn you, Potter, I’m likely only a trifle better at this than you are.”

….

Severus has stripped down to his underpants, just like when he had received leg massages from Potter, and is lying on the bed. They’ve covered the top of the sheets with a towel, because from what both of them remember, sex is a rather messy event. There are four candles lit in the room, and though the foil sheets are up, Severus cannot feel much of a difference in the heat. 

Potter has stripped to his boxers and opens his top knapsack again after a slight pause, withdrawing a small package of condoms.

“You bought condoms, Potter? Rather presumptuous little twit, aren’t you?” 

By the fumbling of the box Severus can see that Harry is just as nervous as he is, and knows that in this sense of experience, they are equal.

“They are said to ease penetration,” Potter explains, and he mumbles slightly as he says it. He’s separated a condom from the rest, and moved towards the bed.  His erection is very visible in his shorts, and Severus is strangely intrigued by it, instead of disgusted. After all, Potter got to stroke him before, but Severus has not yet returned the favour.

“Makes clean up easier too, I’d imagine,” Severus says, and lifts his hips to divest himself of his pants.   Severus can’t help but stare at the hard cock that springs loose when Harry drops his boxers, the same one he’s been feeling gently against his backside every morning.  He is rather bewildered and not just a little pleased that Harry is this aroused for him, Severus Snape.

Severus’ penis is resting against his thigh, half hard, and he can see from Harry’s slightly widened eyes that the boy is very nervous.  Nonetheless, as Severus relaxes on his bed, he is treated to the sight of Harry stretching as he climbs onto the bed beside Severus.  The body is nice, Harry isn’t chiseled like a Greek statue and Severus appreciates the humanness in the random moles along his body, the dark wisps of hair around the tiny nipples, and the dark swirl of black around the navel.  Under Severus’ curious eyes, the cock peeking out of the thatch of black hair starts to lengthen further. 

“The last step is yours. Though I’ve been led to believe you have the biggest bollocks in the wizarding world,” Severus smirks, and it’s not a smile as that would throw Harry off, but it’s enough of a tease to break the tension in the room. It works, and half a moment later there is a nineteen-year-old naked man lying beside him, touching him with reverence and seemingly intent on discovering all of Severus’ weak spots. Unwilling to be at a disadvantage, Severus returns the attention with strong fingers.

Potter seems to be enjoying the touch, and Severus finds himself wondering if Ginny Weasley had been rough or soft in her experiment with Potter. It’s not something Severus wants to focus on at the moment, however, and instead he decides to try something he’s read in the book he nicked from the library.

Potter makes very little sound as Severus leans onto him, whimpering when Severus sucks in the hollow above his collarbone and exhaling shakily as the rough curious fingers of Severus’ hand slide down to cup the side of Harry’s rear. 

“Mmmh,” Harry pouts in his ear, opening his darkened eyes and staring up at Severus.  Harry’s eyes are strangely unfocused, and Severus doesn’t think it’s because of the lack of glasses. A trembling hand runs through Severus’ hair again, rubbing against the short edge at the back of his neck. It is a whole new experience, one that sends shivers down Severus’ spine and he’s glad again that he’s cut it.

“You should kiss me,” the man whispers, and Severus pulls back, his penis sliding along the indentation of Harry’s hip and causing lovely friction.

“You’ll go to bed with someone you don’t love, but you want them to kiss you?” Severus asks.

“Don’t question me,” Harry answers, and there is an evasion in those words but it can be left until morning.  Severus kisses him, softly at first and then more demanding as his hands continue to wander up and down the flushed skin.

It is quite unlike kissing a woman, Severus finds.  Much more demand, the lips are not as soft, and the stubble is a surprising tactile pleasure. 

“Are you offering your bottom tonight, Mr Potter?” Severus asks in a harsh whisper, allowing his full body weight to rest on Harry’s. Before Potter can answer, Severus takes the soft earlobe in front of him and worries it between his teeth, following as Harry jerks his head up and shudders hard.  Severus sucks on the skin, tonguing the back of the earlobe and taking inordinate pleasure in the harsh ‘fuck’ that Harry exhales into his hair. It’s low and breathy, Harry clutches at his shoulders as if he never meant to utter it, though it was in a desperate tone that spoke of needing to be quiet lest anyone heard him.

“Yes.”

Severus kneels back, and the smile on his face is not quite a smirk as he takes in the sight of the body in his bed.  Harry is almost the picture of debauchery, eyes wide and pupils dilated, chest marked with small bite marks, flush red cock hard and curved up against his belly, the glistening pre-come on the tip dripping onto the treasure trail.

“Turn over.” Severus says, his own dick pointing straight at Harry like a divining rod.  Harry does, rolling over and discreetly adjusting himself as he stretches out comfortably.  Severus, unearths the muggle lubricant from the bag, applauding Potter on his preparedness, and runs his warm hands up and down the boy’s back, connecting the freckles that are there.  He squirts some lubricant into his fingers, noting that Harry has turned his head to the side and is watching him out of lidded eyes.

“Is it really easier from the back?” Harry’s hips are moving slightly, rubbing against the comforter and he lets out a strangled grunt as Severus runs slippery fingers along Harry’s perineum. He runs them down towards Harry’s balls, pressing them slightly against his shaft, and completely buggering Harry’s train of thought.  

“So I’ve read,” Severus answers, concentrating on his moving fingers. He’s never seen a male form naked and from this angle before, and it’s rather…strange.

Severus begins to prepare Harry, seven years of hating the boy meaning nothing as his fingers tease and push against the puckered skin, gently opening him up for his first time.  Severus gives a mental thanks yet again for his photographic literary memory, as he can picture the exact chapter in the book detailing the best ways to prepare for sex, and they seem to be working for Harry.

“Snape?” Harry suddenly says, his back tensing as he turns to look over his shoulder.

“Is it…ah, should…is there a spell to clean things?”

This stops Severus, and he sits back to skim over in his mind what he’s read in the book.

“There might be. I do not remember off hand.”

Severus looks down at Potter, who seems eager and embarrassed at the same time.

“There’s the condom. It will be fine.”

It is by unspoken agreement that neither will mention if things are not perfect.  Severus presses himself against Potter, his legs trembling as he keeps even pressure and slowly penetrates without harming the man. He strokes the lightly haired bottom under him and feels Harry pushing back, bearing down on him and breathing hard. There is a tense moment where Severus thinks he hasn’t done enough before he passes the sphincter and eases in. Harry exhales a rough breath of a new man and Severus waits, closing his eyes against the delicious tightness that surrounds him.

“Thank you.”  Harry breathes, moving his hips experimentally.

“For what?” Severus grunts, and he withdraws a little before moving forward again. 

“For not asking if I’m sure about this.”  Harry answers, letting a tiny groan escape as Severus moves in him.

“You’re a bloody adult. You know how to say no.” Severus answers, before pulling out completely.  Harry whips his head around, frustration and anger flashing in his eyes before he notices Severus spreading more lubricant along his cock.

“Am I too tight?”  Harry asks, and it’s not the question that he means.  He is much more than acceptable though, and Severus quirks his eyebrow.

“If I’m to pound you into the mattress,” Severus responds, slowly entering the widened hole again and leaning down to cover Harry’s back, “I believe you will appreciate the slickness.”

Harry moans softly and Severus sets up a slow pace, one that isn’t lacking for either of them. It doesn’t last long; Severus cannot resist and lowers himself, one knee between Harry’s legs and one on the outside, leaning down on his elbows and thrusting strongly.  He gets nothing but gasps, whimpers, and whispered pleas, but Severus is a silent man himself, and comes only with a prolonged grunt.  Potter lasts only a few seconds longer, nearly strangling the pillow that captures his cry.

…. 

The candles are still burning and the attic is warmer than Severus can ever remember. The fingers of one of his hands are entwined with Harry’s, and Harry clenches them tightly while he regains ground.  Severus leans back and pulls the towel out from under them, wiping himself off.

“You may wish to go to the washroom.”  Severus says, his voice rather husky as if the spare sex hormones he’s not expelled with his semen have found their way there.

“I will. Just give me my bones back.”  Harry replies, managing to move his head. That’s all he moves though, and Severus allows himself a small smile. 

“Get up. I can only do one cleaning spell, and it’ll be on the sheets. I’m not jamming my wand up your arse.” Severus says, smacking the sweaty cheek softly. He gets a glare for his efforts, and finally Harry moves, though his feet are rather shaky.

“I thought you just did.”  The boy says, his smirk shadowed by a blush as he takes a step down the ladder and feels the burn.

……

Instead of sleeping back to back, Harry curls up tentatively around Severus, and places a ghost of a kiss at the back of Severus’ neck.

“That was intense,” Potter says, curling his knees up behind Severus’. 

“Fantastic, too.”

Severus doesn’t respond, but tightens his hand around the one Potter has draped over his waist, and smiles.

At three am, when Severus’ thigh cramps from the kneeling position he’d been vigorously in earlier, it is Harry’s strong fingers that massage the knot away and let him fall back to sleep.

In the morning, Harry is stretched out on the opposite side of the bed on his belly, head buried into the pillow and arm slung possessively over Severus’ stomach. 


	6. The Pumpkin Scone Conspiracy by oliversnape

Waking up in a foil-covered attic is an interesting experience.  The foil is very thin – it has to be for hikers – and Severus notes that the lines of the old rafters make interesting patterns through the sheets.  The room finally feels insulated, though he won’t give Potter the pleasure of that acknowledgement until much, much later.

Potter has now turned and is currently curled up on his own side of the bed, back towards Severus and one arm draped up over his head on a funny angle.  Severus can’t actually see most of his face, but his eyes follow the shape of the man’s body as he lies there, experiencing a moment of surrealness as he does so.  _I was inside that man last night_ , Severus thinks. He is overwhelmed by the mechanics of that thought process, much like he sometimes is when he sits down and thinks about the actual steps and sheer biological warping of transfiguring something and making it come alive.

His window is uncovered still, and Severus turns his head on an awkward angle to see the weather outside.  It’s past seven thirty in the morning, and save for the heavy clouds it appears to be dry for the moment.  He rises from the bed, dropping the bed sheets down and ducking automatically to avoid smacking into the rafters. Potter doesn’t move, and Severus wonders if he’s a heavy sleeper or just ignoring Severus’ movements. 

Severus opens his dresser drawer, applying an odd pressure on the left side as it usually gets stuck there, and lifts out his black work trousers and lambs wool jumper.  His mother had spent a majority of her summers knitting; afternoons spent recounting recipes to Severus whilst she worked from a pattern that existed only in her mind.  The new clothing for winter would be finished by late September, and the amount available would depend on Tobias’ success with odd jobs.

He slips down the stairs quietly, his cane hooked over the back collar of the jumper.  The wool has been washed and worn enough that it is no longer scratchy, but rather soft, and it carries a smell that Severus will forever associate with home.

The kettle is filled and popped on the stove, and Severus washes himself quickly in the bathroom. He doesn’t feel much different than most mornings, though he knows he’s slept better than usual. He’s heard that sex is a mood enhancer, and supposedly makes his body run smoother, if he is one to listen to the rumours at Hogwarts.  

Potter comes downstairs a few moments later, shirt riding up as he scratches his torso.  Severus’ eyes flick to the spot, as if he expects to see his own handprints still there from the night before. 

Potter blinks at him as he fetches his own mug from the cupboard.

“Why are you staring at me?”

Severus plucks an apple from the fruit bowl on the table and starts peeling it with a paring knife. He watches Potter, his…his what? Boyfriend? Surely not, more like test subject. Former student, though Severus hasn’t taught Potter in more than a year and so much has happened in the interim that it seems long enough ago.  

“Arse hurt?” Severus smirks, collecting the apple peel cuttings on his scone plate. 

Potter laughs and pointedly plunks himself down on the kitchen chair opposite of Severus, a slice of apple pie on his plate.

“Not in the way you’d think.”

“Oh?” Severus asks, his eyebrow raising. “So the experiment was successful. Tell me, Potter. Do you feel the urge to decorate my cottage in pastels and doilies?”

Harry almost chokes on his pie, and Severus is smug as he drinks his tea.

“’fraid not,” Potter says, wiping crumbs off his chin. “Maybe you didn’t do it right.”

Potter’s face is decorated with a wide grin, and he looks just like the devil he used to be at Hogwarts.  Severus is strangely relaxed, sitting in his tiny kitchen with his back against the drafty window, a plate full of apple peels in front of him that are dusted in brown sugar, and a contented man with whom he had sex the night before sitting in front of him.

“Are you critiquing my technique, Mr Potter?” Severus asks, and he uses his dangerous professor tone that causes Potter’s smile to falter for a second or two.

“Not at all, Professor Snape. I merely am thinking that as it is an experiment, the positions should perhaps be switched. You know, so we get both points of view.”

Potter says this with a bit of defiance in his voice, and Severus can tell that he’s drawn his shoulders back just the tiniest amount, in order to make himself appear impressive. It’s never worked on Severus, but Severus is rather glad in any event that Potter is standing up for his desire to have things equal, without Severus having to resort to bringing it up.  From what he’d read in the book, and from Potter’s reactions the night before, it seems like bottoming has quite the potential to be pleasurable, and Severus is naturally curious. 

“You are assuming quite a lot, Gryffindor,” Severus states, his voice even and his gaze hard.  Curious as he may be, he’s not willing to just offer himself up to a former student. “Topping a male from behind is one thing. Being buggered by another male is something completely different.”

“Hmm,” Potter ponders, finishing up his breakfast and putting the dishes in the sink. “The chance to lie there and not need to do all the work, yet orgasm anyway. Your choice, Slytherin.”

…….

The old grinder from the corner of Severus’ kitchen counter has been moved to the table, and a large plastic tub placed underneath the spout. Four tubs of peel and cored apples, this morning’s work, sit stacked against the kitchen walls and make the cramped workspace seem even smaller. Severus is checking his mother’s recipe book for the correct amount of smashed apple that is required, though it’s not actually his mother’s recipe.  Tobias had helped his own father brew apple cider, and his notes are folded up on old notebook paper and stuck between the pages of stew recipes, written in the same spidery scrawl that Severus has. 

Potter fiddles with the wireless radio he has, one that seems to have found its way to the cottage without Severus realizing it.  It’s scuffed and glows blue as Potter twists the dial delicately, seemingly searching for something as he mumbles under his breath.

“Albus. Mad-Eye. Remus. Tonks. Sirius. F-Fred.”

Severus starts to manually crank the grinder as he closes his eyes.  He’s not sure why Harry is looking for Potterwatch, as now that the war is over there is no reason to keep it running. For a moment Severus has a flashback to a cold spring night at Hogwarts, no moon visible and the wind high as he sat in the Headmaster’s rooms and ran through the list of deceased Order members to gain access to the news.  The Carrows had started to question where certain students had disappeared to, and Severus had found himself being followed as he stalked through the halls with various food bundles hidden in his robes. 

That had not been an easy month for him.

Regular music starts though, and Potter strangely doesn’t look disappointed when he cannot find the Potterwatch broadcast. Severus suspects it is a habit of comfort that causes Potter to seek it out, in any event.  He works silently alongside Severus, adding apples to the grinding funnel with timed precision that would have fooled anyone watching into thinking that they’ve worked together before.

“Is this going to be alcoholic?”

Severus doesn’t miss a beat as he continues grinding. He shifts in the chair, ignoring the creaking wood and stretching his back against the rest until it gives a small crack.

“Some of it will be, yes.”

“There’s something I want you to look at,” Potter says, standing up and going to fetch a book from the sitting room.  He sounds like he’s just remembered it, and Severus wonders how long ago he’d meant to share it. Severus takes a break from the grinding and washes his hands.  The book that Potter has is a heavily annotated copy of _Hogwarts, A History_ , papers sticking out of the top where pages have been marked, corners dog-eared, and there is a suspiciously pumpkin juice-looking stain on the cover.  Severus takes it and smirks at the cover before opening it.  Ronald Weasley’s hand writing – a few years old by the childish look of it – has crossed out the author’s name and placed Hermione Granger’s there.

Severus can see why when he opens the book. There are little neatly written notes in a lot of the page margins, much like his own potion workbooks, and Severus finds little scraps of typewritten paragraphs where Granger has updated the book with their own adventures.

“Well, well. Hermione Granger punched Draco Malfoy in the face? I have always suspected that she has a hidden violent streak.”

Harry snorts as he starts up the grinder again, his arm flexing as he tries to pick up the speed that Severus had going.

“It’s not always so hidden,” Harry says reminiscing. “She helped me break into Gringotts.”

Severus lifts his head from where he’d been reading about Potter’s ridiculous obsession with the Half Blood Prince. 

“I beg your pardon, Mr Potter?” Severus stares. “I believe you just insinuated that Hermione Granger, head of that ridiculous house elf liberation club, broke into the preeminent Goblin bank in the United Kingdom.”

“That’s the one,” Potter confirms offhandedly, using a wooden spoon to stir the mash in the bucket as he grinds the third box of apples. “She polyjuiced into Bellatrix Lestrange to do it.”

Severus begrudgingly raises his respect of Granger as he quirks his eyebrow. The last year had been particularly desperate and creative for the targets of Voldemort, and Severus impressed that Potter has friends willing to go to such extremes to help him.

Severus had always been annoyed at how similar their friendships were in Potter’s first and second years; Dumbledore’s so-called Golden Trio and Severus’ own companionship with Lily.  By now, Severus doesn’t think there is much of anything that could drive Potter, Weasley, and Granger apart.

“Find the page with the orange marker.”

Potter is just moving onto the fourth box of apples, and Severus is surprised that he’s not even suggested using magic to prepare the apples. It would certainly make things easier, and they have enough room in their daily spell allowance, but Potter seems to prefer real work sometimes as well. 

Turning to the page and turning up his lip at the garish Chudley Cannons bookmarker, Severus skims over the paragraph that a badly drawn arrow is pointing at. 

_“The founding pillars of Hogwarts provide the building blocks for the school. The traditions and values have been instilled deeply within the walls of the castle, and shall remain thusly as long as Hogwarts shall stand. The curriculum for teaching all wizards and witches is set forth both by the Headmaster or Headmistress of the school, and by an association of seventeen watchmen set up in 1104 AD, to ensure a proper education for pupils without much due influence by political parties of interest of any set time.”_

Severus has a thoughtful look on his face as he processes this. 

“Seventeen has no important meaning in the wizarding world, save for the age of majority and amount of sickles in a galleon,” Severus murmurs, skimming through the next few pages to see if anything else of interest is there.

“Dumbledore was always going on about the number seven being a powerful magic number,” Harry shrugs.  “Seven horcruxes, seven years at Hogwarts, seven players on a quidditch team, seven secret passages out of Hog…er.”

Harry looks up from the grinding and his expression is rather sheepish. 

“No need to continue, Potter. I have the Chosen One’s History of Hogwarts right here,” Severus replies with a smirk. He holds up the book of Granger’s, and is confident that Potter now realizes that Severus plans to read the entire thing.  “Be that as it may, I do not believe seventeen holds any other significance.”

Harry finishes grinding the last of the apples and stretches his arm, pulling it across his chest and holding it tight as if in a strange gymnastic pre-routine warm up.

“Dunno. I’m rather a math atheist, myself.”

Severus stands to help him move the grinder over to the sink, where it will be washed thoroughly.

“You cannot be a math atheist Potter,” Severus says, the rolling of his eyes somehow evident in his tone. “Math is deep routed in the history of mankind, and continues to exists regardless over whether or not dunderheads continue to misunderstand it.”

Severus starts taking apart the grinder and only partially sees Potter in the background miming a puppet with his hand and mouthing ‘blah blah.’

“All sounds like a load of rubbish, anyway. Who chooses such a weird number?”

“Unless the watchmen are not simply seventeen men,” Severus swiftly comments.

Potter stops and looks for a moment as if he’s stubbed his toe on a particularly sharp piece of furniture.

“The guilds run Hogwarts.”

“They might have,” Severus says, dropping part of the grinding mechanism into the sink full of soapy water.

“No, I think they still do now.  Think about it, Severus.  The guilds, they’re all trades guilds. All skills that people would have had to have before when wizarding society started, and still do really, and they’ve been around for centuries. Of course they’d want something to say about how Hogwarts is run, they’re the ones who need students out into the working world.”

“You are making very little sense, Potter. And I did not give you leave to use my first name.”

Severus doesn’t look nearly as threatening as his did in school, standing at the sink in work clothes and a patched jumper, which is just as well because Potter ignores him anyway.

“No, it makes a lot of sense,” Potter says, putting the book down and pulling out the white board. He grabs a marker and stares at it, unaware from the shorthand markings that the board is upside down.

“Diagon Alley is the central location of the seventeen guilds.  Hogwarts was almost destroyed in the final battle, but Diagon Alley wasn’t.”  Here they both shiver, as Hogwarts has always been home.

“If the guilds are the ones to support Hogwarts and keep it running, they need to generate money and public support.”

He draws a stick family on the board wearing pointy wizard hats and standing beside a pile of crudely drawn trunks.  Potter may be a powerful wizard, but he has absolutely no talent for art.

“That’s why Cardogan was so keen on getting me to do all those public appearances. The more money Diagon Alley makes, the more they can put back into Hogwarts.”

Potter is getting excited and Severus holds up a hand to interrupt him.

“Where were they last year then? I distinctly do not remember any special guilds contacting me to oust the anti-muggle campaign the Dark Lord imposed.”

“That’s because you probably scared the piss out of them,” Harry answers, getting excited about his idea. “And maybe they only step in after everything has calmed down.”

“That seems entirely too benign of a conspiracy. And what is your explanation for Cardogan’s murder by an auror, of all people?”

Severus had assumed that when Potter did not return to Hogwarts for his seventh year he would no longer be treated to Potter’s bewildered student look. He’s pleasantly surprised to find this is not the case.  Potter looks like someone has told him the secret behind the moving staircases, or that Santa Claus is imaginary.

“Wait. I think if we’re fucking each other, we should be on first name terms.”

Severus narrows his eyes at the subject change and crosses his arms.

“People do not need to be on a first name basis solely for sex.”

Potter cocks his head on an angle and gives Severus a considering look, one that he would take for pity had Potter not been careful to add a bit of neutrality. 

“No. But it seems rather disrespectful to keep calling you Snape.”

“A fact that never seemed to bother you at Hogwarts.”

Harry huffs and spells the heavy bucket of apple puree to float in the air near the table. 

“Regardless, if we’re going to keep doing...this,” and Potter gestures between them with his non-wand hand, keeping the bucket of floating apple puree from tipping, “then I think we should call each other by our first names.”

Severus did not know that Potter actually plans to continue with the intimacy, and he’s not quite sure what to think of it.  He very much remembers parties at Hogwarts during which he sat at a table whilst his classmates went off to dance, and most recently the feeling of sitting in bars and seeing the strangers around him being picked up as he sat alone. It made meeting his contacts easier as a spy, but Severus had certainly known he was unwanted.

“And just why, _Harry_ , are we doing this?” Severus asks, and there’s almost a dangerous purr to his voice. Sex is sex, and his opinion has changed a bit of it after his experiences the night before. He wouldn’t mind the availability of more sex, were it not for the potential awkwardness during the day.

“Didn’t it feel good?” Harry asks, squeezing Severus’ arm as he walks past. He heads out of the little cottage, directing the bucket down towards the outshed where there is an apple press.  Severus watches him go through the kitchen window, and then decides to take the Potter version of _Hogwarts, a History_ and read it upstairs in his newly insulated room. 

….

Severus is awoken by the pricking of the hairs on the back of his neck, and after a moment of lying absolutely still he ascertains that it is Potter back in the cottage, banging around in the shower beneath the attic.   He can hear the water running through the old shower taps, causing the odd clunking noise every moment or so, and it’s a bit gentler than the rain pounding on the roof. Potter seems to be a silent shower user, as Severus cannot hear any singing or mumbling.  Severus has no idea what time it is, and he’s annoyed at both this confusion and the fog that has descended on his mind.

The shower turns off as Severus stretches in the bed, wincing a little as his leg threatens to cramp on him.  There are plenty of potions that Severus would love to experiment with as a possible cure for his leg, however most of the ingredients required are banned from his very short allowed potion list. He rolls over as Potter comes up the ladder, and blinks at the naked skin. Potter is only wearing a small towel around his hips.

“Had a good nap?”  Potter asks, rummaging through his bag for something. 

Severus is staring at his back, watching how the small beads of water Potter has missed end up collected in the scar tissue on the man’s back.

“The sleep was satisfactory,” Severus answers, shaking his head a little.

“But now you feel like rubbish?” Potter has pulled a pair of boxer shorts out and seems to consider the towel for a moment before dropping it to put his pants on.

“I find afternoon naps to be disorientating,” Severus admits, watching the pale white arse move as Potter tries to shimmy into the pants gracefully.  He’s half hard and flushed from the shower, a fact that Severus finds both interesting and partially arousing.

“It’s raining now anyway, no real hurry to get up.”

Potter searches around for a shirt and is holding it out in front of his chest when he sees Severus’ gaze.

“The apple mash has all been properly pressed,” Potter says, not breaking Severus’ stare.  Severus waits a moment before moving the book off the bed.

“Good.”

Potter climbs on, abandoning his t-shirt to the footboard of the bed and wearing still just the pants. His cock seems to be straining to get out of them, and Severus can feel a sympathizing ache from his own groin.

Potter’s fingers travel up the thick cargo material of Severus’ trousers, skipping along his thighs and gripping his hips.

“Are you going to try it?”

There is nothing being given away in Severus’ expression, the dark eyes hard as they judge Potter’s sincerity.

“I am given to believe that it is not a solely unpleasurable experience,” Severus carefully replies. He makes no move to remove his own clothing. 

Potter smirks.

“It’s a very odd feeling,” Potter admits, as he tentatively straddles Severus’ waist.  His body is very warm, and Severus’ eyes are dark as he takes in the muscles across Potter’s chest. 

“But then it feels very good.”

Severus has his own thoughts regarding this, as the book he’s read has provided some interesting commentary on the first time.  Severus is prepared to hex Harry if anything embarrassing happens, however.   

He lifts his own hand and taps his finger on Potter’s chest, stilling the soft stroking of Potter’s hand on Severus’ stomach.

“You will not speak of this to anyone.”  

Severus’ tone is low, and he keeps it steady to ensure that Potter cannot hear the apprehension in his voice. 

Potter gives him a dirty look, but starts stroking Severus’ stomach again, seemingly oblivious to the growing erection under him.

“Gryffindor beds aren’t notched, you know.”

Severus pulls himself up to an almost sitting position and allows Potter to remove his jumper and shirt.

“Slytherin ones are,” Severus murmurs, closing his eyes when Potter’s lips attack his neck. The room is warm and the rain on the roof is rather soothing as Severus lies back against his thin pillow, warm and calloused hands exploring his chest and a stubbled chin rubbing just under his ear. It’s a very strange sensation, and it sends shivers all the way to his groin.

Harry, mindful of his traitorous leg, stops for a moment to allow Severus to rearrange himself on the bed.  His bed, the one he’s burrowed in ever since he started living there.  The bed dips, it’s wrought iron frame creaking as Harry spreads out beside him, whether out of protest or acceptance Severus cannot tell.

All thought flees from his mind when instead of the strong and demanding kiss that they’d shared the night before, Harry lies beside him and caresses his face slowly, leaning in to kiss his chest.  He shudders, and it’s a feeling not unlike the mornings he wakes up and pain pulses from the bite mark in his leg down to his toes.  There’s no pain this time though, just bliss, and an odd feeling that he’s unable to identify.  He draws his hand up and runs it through the back of Harry’s hair, his fingers tugging roughly, sporadically, as Harry rubs his foot slowly against Severus’ calves.  His trousers slide roughly against the hair on his leg as Potter’s foot moves methodically, echoing the stroke of Potter’s thumb on Severus’ nipple. Severus hadn’t been aware that his nipples are that responsive.  He releases a quiet moan, arching his head up and matching the slow thrusting of Potter’s hips.

If Harry keeps this up, Severus knows he will not last. 

“Harry,” he speaks, and he’s surprised to hear that his voice has gone deeper, muskier with what he can only assume to be hormones.

Severus gasps for breath as Potter licks his chest, sucking on the brown hardened nubs that his thumbs had previously been stroking.  Severus loses his train of thought for a moment, but then finally manages to halt the boy with a tug of hair.

“Harry, stop.”  

There is confusion in the green eyes that suddenly find his, and a flash of hurt as well, but it’s gone before Severus is able to take it away.  He looks at the man propped up beside him; the quivering stomach muscles and treasure trail showing disappearing into Potter’s tented boxers.  Potter, the man whom Severus is for some reason more eager to sleep with than any woman he’s considered in the past.

“My leg,” Severus says, as if that can explain his pause.  He wants this, he’s wanted it since seeing and feeling Potter’s impressive orgasm the night before, and from the swollen lips and darker eyes he can see that Harry wants it too.  Severus is out of sorts, however, and annoyed that his body is trembling ever so slightly with nervous anticipation.  Severus has never been good at asking for what he wants though.  When borne out of necessity, yes. But otherwise, he’s not even sure he’s accepted his own desires, never mind to expose them to someone else.

Severus whispers a spell and he’s now down to his smalls, clothing folded neatly on top of the dresser. It’s one spell he’s mastered wandlessly, taught to him by a nursing student who’d given a disapproving glance to his leg and the clear objection to touching him.  It has never counted when the auror comes to visit.  He rolls over on his stomach, carefully tucking his injured leg up a little.  

“I expect you to take care,” Severus says, hiding the nervousness in his voice and refusing to tell Potter that before Potter arrived at the cottage, it has been more than a decade since anyone has touched him.

And Harry does.

Severus is unprepared for the attention he receives under Potter’s unskilled but motivated hands, and he’s glad that he’s rolled over onto his stomach so that Potter cannot see him lose control.  His shoulders are rubbed and kissed, his arms, his back, his spine is lightly tickled all the way down to the base bone.  He feels hands massaging his buttocks, and while it is an odd feeling it does give some relief to the ache on his right side.  The touch turns sensual, and it’s now that Severus realizes how hard he actually is, as he has to adjust his position. Severus casts a quick wandless cleansing spell, a personal one that he’s heard of before but never needed to use, and says nothing as Potter jumps upon hearing it.  Severus refuses to explain the high cleanliness he demands of himself.

It’s a good thing he’s done so, Severus thinks, as gentle but strong fingers spread his cheeks and a thumb runs possessively down the part, rubbing over his anus and teasing.  Severus cannot help but shift on the bed, his body both arching away from the touch and demanding more. 

“Potter, what the devil do you think you’re doing?”  Severus demands, his voice hoarse. He has a feeling he knows what Potter is about to do, and it makes him uneasy in both embarrassment and anticipation.

“I found your book,” Harry replies, wiping any utterance of denial that Severus might have made with a strong swipe of his tongue.  Severus is undone by the warm breath of air that ghosts over his entrance, and Potter goes to prove that he is actually quite studious when left alone to read a book.

Severus decides that if Potter’s tongue feels that good thrusting into him, then he can certainly handle Potter’s cock.

Severus allows Potter to test out his newly studied skills, and even to prepare him with the muggle lubricant that he’s bought, but when he hears the condom packaged being opened he starts to turn.

“Everything alright?” Potter asks, stilling his movements.

“I wish to face forward,” Severus answers, not explaining further. 

“It might hurt a bit m0 –” Potter stops when he sees the look that Severus gives him and moves to allow Severus to turn.  Potter’s erection looks much bigger than it has any right to, but Severus is fairly certain Potter has prepared him well enough.

He watches Potter blush as his fingers shakingly unroll the condom over the stiff penis, and Severus has a moment of indecision before spreading his legs. He doesn’t miss the look of hunger and amazement in Potter’s eyes, and sucks back a breath as Potter lifts his balls aside.

“If it makes you feel any better, you’re thicker than I am and we still managed this last night,” Harry says, lining himself up and unknowingly teasing Severus’ as the head of his cock rubs against Severus’ anus.

“Shut up,” Severus tells him, relaxing himself as he is penetrated. He has a few seconds of panic as he feels he might actually need to go to the washroom, but as Potter’s hips unevenly jerk forward, Severus starts to unclench around the intruder.

Harry starts to set up a rhythm, his arm muscles flexing around Severus’ shoulders as he keeps himself closely cradled in Severus’ thighs. 

“You feel nothing like Gi…like a woman,” Potter whispers, his stomach muscles contracting and rubbing against Severus’ dick in a delicious, torturous movement.

“I should hope not,” Severus huffs in return, his hips rocking gently up with Harry’s thrusts and his voice not sounding nearly as irritated as he’d like it to be.  He clenches his own cock rather roughly, remembering the even pressure of Potter’s arse around it the night before.

Harry suddenly hits his prostate, and Severus lets out a startled whimper when he does so.  Harry takes this as a challenge, and renews his effort to hit the same spot. He only manages it with erratic regularity, keeping Severus on a strange rollercoaster of sparking arousal and orgasm denial.

Severus lets his one arm relax on the bed, unconsciously bringing his other hand up to cup the back of Potter’s head.  He hums a little as Potter’s roughened hand slips down his side to grasp at his hip.  Severus is close now, and he knows this orgasm will be a slow tip over instead of a frenzied wank. 

Potter speeds up his thrusts, the coarse hair on his thighs rubbing against the backs of Severus’ and he scrunches his eyes closed as he comes with a whimpered grunt.  Severus’ cock is trapped under Harry’s stomach and the feeling of extra movement inside him, caught in the condom as the come may be, causes his own orgasm.  Harry’s panting breath is hot against Severus’ neck, and when he licks the salt-sweatened skin there Severus’ entire body shudders in post orgasm sensitivity.

Harry withdraws carefully, reaching over the bed to fetch his damp towel from his earlier shower. The condom is wrapped in a tissue for the trash, and Severus luxuriates in being washed gently by Potter. He stretches his legs down and feels Harry’s strong fingers ensuring there is no cramping, and Severus doesn’t miss the attentiveness in his actions.

Potter hands him his underpants, and Severus eyes him critically.

“I am certain that we were doing this solely for the therapeutic benefits of physical touch.”

Severus is sitting up with his feet over the side of the bed, pulling on his shirt, but he doesn’t miss the second’s hesitation as Potter tries to stuff himself back in his boxers.

“We are. It’s working well, I think.”

Potter stands up and pulls on his jeans, leaving them undone for the moment. His shirt is hanging off one of the bedposts and he smiles at Severus as he turns it the proper way out.

“Harry. In all likelihood I will end up hurting you.”

Severus is dressed again, and he grimaces at the slightly greasy feeling between his legs. He suspects it’s from the condom, as the lube is supposedly water based.

“Oh, I know,” Harry answers, starting to climb down the ladder. “You’ll have to make the ride worth the fall, Severus.”

…..

Dinner that evening is a simple shepherd’s pie that Severus throws together from the groceries Potter has brought.  It is by unspoken agreement, as Potter doesn’t have a time tracker on him, that he will pick up the groceries for the house.  Severus writes the list, as he refuses to have too many sweets or rubbish.

Conversation is almost non-existent, though not because it’s uncomfortable.  Potter is mulling over the whiteboard, trying to figure out ulterior motives to the guilds running Hogwarts, and Severus is pondering how Potter became his equal.  Between the dinners that Potter has cooked for him, the help around the house, the surprisingly coherent manuscript that he’s produced, and now the sex in which he treated Severus with complete respect, Severus realizes that Potter has become a well rounded man.  Potter sits across from him and scratches the top of the scar on his shoulder, distracted in thought.  Somewhere, Severus thinks, Albus Dumbledore is having a hearty chuckle.

Severus changes the sheets before they go to bed that night, as Potter runs out in the rain to the shed off-property.  He spells his manuscript to correct itself from Severus’ copyediting notes, and leaves it in the shed to run overnight.

……..

Severus spends Thursday morning scouring the cottage.  Even though it’s only the first week of October, he can feel the cold in the air and he knows that winter will come fast.  His mother had always spent a weekend in October completely cleaning their home at Spinner’s End, and Severus carries on the tradition as he sweeps the floors and bleaches the washroom. 

Potter returns around noon, having slipped out to Alnwick, a town that Severus hasn’t been to in a few years.  He’s gone to Barter’s Books to purchase some second hand books that they plan to use as the cover for Potter’s own work.  Potter takes over the cleaning whilst Severus inspects the covers, finally selecting an emerald green linen covered book. He sketches out the title on a scrap piece of paper, considering the right shade of light blue to make the letters.

“Red’s a better colour for my book, don’t you think?”  Potter asks, standing in the entryway to the living room with a rag in his hand.

Severus nods his head after a moment and tosses the green book aside.

“Perhaps black with green writing.”

“That’ll work,” Potter smiles, “and then I just need to spell the manuscript inside?”

“Yes,” Severus answers. “Which if I remember correctly, you have previous practise with.”

Severus smirks at the blush on Potter’s face, fully aware that the little twerp had switched out his potion book with Weasley’s two years earlier.

He follows Potter outside to the off-property shed, skimming through the manuscript and ensuring it looks proper.

“Shrink it, and control your sizing to fit inside the cover.”

Potter points his wand at the edited and compiled manuscript whilst Severus watches him from inside the property line.

“Reducio.”

The manuscript shrinks easily and Potter smiles to himself.  He then places the title sketch that Severus made overtop of the book and traces it with his wand, carving the letters into the cover.  It only takes a few moments, and they are both pleased with the results.  The manuscript is bound to the cover with another spell, and Harry picks it up to test the binding.

“Looks good,” Harry says, flipping through it to show Severus.

“Acceptable. Tolstoy will be here soon, disillusion it and we shall copy it tonight.”

As Harry moves his wand over the book and casts the non-verbal spell, he questions Severus.

“They won’t know the book isn’t what it seems when I give it to them, will they?”

“No,” Severus answers.  “I have no idea who the new leader of the Diagon Alley association is, but they shan’t know that your book is not what it seems.”

“The last letter I got from him or her seemed pretty excited that I was publishing a stupid recipe book,” Harry mumbles, and holds up the final cover.  It currently says ‘The Pumpkin Scone Conspiracy: Recipes Too Good to Keep Secret’, and by tomorrow’s statue unveiling will be ready to change back to their first cover that Harry made.

“They have agreed to distribute the books?”

“Yeah,” Harry answers, packing up his materials. “It was part of my – ”

Harry stops and looks distinctly uncomfortable, as if a bug has scurried up his pant leg.

“What’s wrong with you?” Severus asks, quirking his eyebrow.

“I just got a strange feeling,” Harry answers. He looks concerned.  “I itch. It feels like there’s something pricking at me, or pulling me.”

Severus studies him for a moment before beckoning toward the cottage. 

“Come on, you’ve likely just been bitten by a bug.”

Harry walks towards Severus, the book under his arm and his wand loose in his hand. Later tonight Severus will use the duplicating potion on the book, and hopefully create three hundred of them.

“As I was saying, it’s part of my agreement for showing up,” Harry says, and he passes onto the property.

“Oh, the itch is gone.”

Severus stops him immediately and takes the book out of his hand. 

“Go back off property,” Severus orders.

Harry does, and doesn’t need to say anything for Severus to know he feels the prickling again. It’s evident in his tense shoulders. He watches Harry raise his wand and cast lumos. The light is there, but it is subdued and stutters slightly.  Potter comes back onto the property, and confirms that the itching has left again.

“Someone has placed you under the home arrest tracker,” Severus murmurs, using his cane to walk back up the little hill towards the cottage. 

“Rubbish,” Potter answers. “I haven’t done anything that warrants an arrest.”

Severus barely notices that Potter puts his hand on the small of Severus’ back to guide him up the rocky path. 

“What about aiding a convicted death eater?” Severus asks wryly.

As the front door comes into view, Severus can see Tolstoy and Iain waiting there for them, Tolstoy counting the rocks lining the path.

“Remember, Potter. Only the aurors can impose that spell.”

Potter looks very worried as he glances at Severus, but he says nothing as they approach Tolstoy, the boy who is incredibly good at parroting the precise things Severus doesn’t want repeated.

 


	7. The Pumpkin Scone Conspiracy by oliversnape

Severus’ cottage on the Orkney Islands is quite far from London but somehow Weasley’s tiny owl still arrives there, looking only slightly put out by the wind. Harry opens the window and smiles ruefully at it, scratching the little bird behind its neck.  Severus watches him carefully, putting the dinner dishes away in the sink. He remembers Sirius Black bragging about procuring a tiny owl at one point during a meeting at Grimmauld Place, supposedly one that is small enough to look rather like a regular day bird and thus be inconspicuous for delivering messages. Going by the saddened look on the man’s face, Severus is reasonably certain that this is that owl. Either that or Potter is currently remembering his old owl that was murdered.

“It’s from Ron and Hermione,” Potter says, checking the scroll. “They’ll be here at nine to apparate us.”

Severus nods at this, and continues sorting through paperwork. He’s transcribed his notes from the whiteboard into a portable notebook and is double-checking something.

“Are you certain you’re right about the memories?”

Harry is feeding the tiny owl some left over beef from the stew that they’d had for dinner. He looks nervous and rather doubtful. 

“Ninety-two percent certain,” Severus answers. He steeps his fingers in front of himself, tapping his chin in warning. “Potter, you came to me regarding all this.”

Severus’ voice is thick and his tone scornful, and ordinarily it would have meant a detention was looming.

“No! It’s fine. I just don’t see all the pieces like you do, I suppose.”

“Allow me to act surprised,” Severus scoffs.  He shoves the Evening Prophet towards Potter, who snatches it up.

“Piss off, you prissy git. You’ve been playing this game for longer than I’ve been alive, so I’d hope you’d recognize them.”

Harry angrily stretches out the paper to read the front story, and misses Severus’ look of appraisal.

“Well, well.  Harry Potter finally has good comebacks.”

Harry scans the article, surprised to find that the ministry has issued a recall of all Victory Beans and Victory Frogs that have gone to shops and the public. He has a grin on his face, but doesn’t look up to meet Severus’ eye.

“Oh, I don’t know. That whole exchange in sixth year about you not needing to call me sir was pretty funny.”

“Hmmph,” Severus huffs mock-irritably, as he stands and smacks the back of Harry’s calf with his cane.

“Ow!”

There is a giggle from the living room, where Tolstoy is moving about.  He stands in front of the bookcase in the living room, reading the titles of the books out to himself. He’s not speaking loudly, but his enunciation is quite clear (if a little monotonous).  Severus listens for a few moments, and is quite impressed with his attempts of Latin.

It’s getting on nine-thirty, and there is restlessness upon the cottage. Tolstoy’s hands are fluttering by his side, as Severus imagines it’s close to his bedtime and Tolstoy’s calmness goes to hell in a hand basket when his routine is interrupted.  Potter is unnerved as well, and he’s now taken up residence in the loo.

“Get your arse out of there, Potter, some of us have to use the facilities!”  Severus grunts, banging on the washroom door.  Tolstoy starts reading the titles louder, and Severus hopes that Iain turns up shortly, lest they need to make a bed out of the sofa for the boy.

“Just come in,” Potter grumbles. 

Severus tentatively pokes open the door with his cane, relieved when he spots a fully dressed Potter sitting on the plastic chair in front of the mirror.  Severus isn’t sure why he feels relieved, but he knows that sexual nakedness is much different from daily nakedness.  There is a small mirror taped to the doorframe right beside Severus, and Potter is holding a pair of scissors.

“One might find it easier to ask for help cutting one’s hair,” Severus says, eyebrow raised.

Harry gives him a dubious look.

“My apologies. I had no idea your specialty was in _hair_.”

The green eyes are narrowed in the mirror as they glare at Severus’ short, lanky hair. 

“Nonsense,” Severus replies, maneuvering himself so that his back faces Potter while he takes his piss.  “My specialty is in wielding sharp objects.”

“Your tongue certainly counts,” Potter mutters.  In the living room they can hear Tolstoy moving about, and Harry turns his head toward the sound.

“Where do you think Iain is?”

“I am not certain. All I was told is that the had a business meeting.”  

Severus pushes Harry aside to wash his hands, and takes the scissors away from him.  Potter only needs a cleanup trim around his neck and ears, and that’s all Severus really trusts himself to do.

“We should put more wards up around the cottage.”

Potter’s shoulders have become slightly tense, and his voice has changed into a lower pitch, much like the one he uses when he has one of his annoying gut feelings about something. Ones that are frustratingly correct more often than not.

“There are security wards on the cottage already, and any you cast would need to be renewed at midnight,” Severus says, snipping the last particularly stubborn curl of hair.

“What wards are here now?” Potter asks, standing up and wiping the hair from his shirt.

“Ministry ones. Anti-apparition, the rent calculation, restrictions on my magic and brewing, a bog standard theft one, and the muggle repelling charm.”

“Exactly,” Potter replies, explaining nothing. He still looks worried though, and Severus follows him into the living room.

Potter moves to collect the random papers from the chesterfield and gives Tolstoy an apple he’s brought in from the kitchen.

“Potter, I am not one of your precious little Gryffindor friends who will blindly follow you into your next stupid adventure. Explain your issue.”

“No one is supposed to make it to the cottage, Severus.  Tolstoy doesn’t count. But twice this week Iain has been here.  He’s come to the door unaided. I think the ministry has cancelled the security wards here.” 

Severus thunks his cane down on the floor a bit harder than intended and causes Tolstoy to flinch.  The ministry is now fully aware that Potter is living at the cottage, and he’s not certain why they’d lower the security, yet keep the magical restriction. Unless he and Potter are to be made targets. 

Severus takes a deep breath and follows Potter’s eyesight out the living room French door windows.  Up the path from the cottage he can see a shadow moving, one that looks like a man slightly hunched over.  He watches Iain slowly come into view, and have no trouble (save for navigating the uneven path stones) reaching the front door.

Potter lets Iain in, folding the Evening Prophet and stuffing it out of sight into his back jeans pocket.

“Hullo, Iain,” Harry greets, looking remarkably relaxed as he stands leaning against the wall.

“Still here, Harry? Good to see.”

Iain is wearing an old woolen cap on his head, and has what appears to be a mile long scarf wrapped around his neck. It’s frayed in places, and an ugly off-orange colour, but it looks very warm.

“You too. Meeting go well?”

 Both Harry and Iain watch as Severus holds Tolstoy’s warm coat out for the boy, waiting as he methodically puts his scarf on first. 

“As well as can be, movin’ paperwork,” Iain replies.  Tolstoy gets his buttons done up, and turns to say goodbye, his eyes focused somewhere on the back wall of the kitchen.

“Bye, Rus. Bye, Otter.”

“Good night,” Severus replies, smirking at Potter’s annoyed look.

“See you tomorrow!”  Iain says, and Severus stills.

“Excuse me?”

“The market? Fridays are your market days, nae?” Iain’s hand is on the doorknob, and the air leaking in is cold.

“Yes, that’s right,” Severus says, letting a wry smile out with his breath.

…

The moon outside casts an interesting light shadow through the window of the attic, and the reflection upon the foil ceiling covers makes it appear to have replicated itself.  Severus folds his clothing neatly before putting it away, turning back the covers on the bed.  He’s placed two warm bricks in there, heated up from the fireplace down stairs and wrapped in old canvas flour sacks.  They warm the sheets, not as well as a spell does, but sufficient enough in the magic-limited cottage.

Potter climbs up the ladder, shirtless, as there is a small load of laundry soaking in a large tub in the washroom. Severus slips under the blankets on his side of the bed, depositing his watch on the nightstand, placing his wand in the notched headboard within easy reach.  He watches Potter trip out of his jeans, and then gracefully strip off his shorts and change into loose pajamas.  Severus is inexplicably strung tight; he knows that he is the elder and the one who was in a position of authority, yet he also knows that in this…farce of a relationship, Potter is his equal.

Harry sighs into bed, letting out a deep breath as his bones sink into the mattress. He pulls the covers up not a moment after, and they both lie in silence and listen to the crickets chirping in the dell, the space heater downstairs humming slightly, and the wind scratching a shrub branch against the living room window.  Potter has his hands up behind the back of his head, but he does not encroach on Severus’ side of the bed.

Severus remains quiet, as the night before last he fucked Potter, last night Potter topped him, and now they are at an impasse. He has no idea what Potter is thinking, or what the man expects.

“Something big is going to happen tomorrow,” Potter murmurs, distracting Severus temporarily.

“All signs point to it, yes.”

“It feels like this is the night before a revolution,” Potter adds, staring up and out the window.

Severus turns and stares up and down Potter’s body.

“Well, you are rather short, and I suspect you do have a Napoleon complex.”

“Arse,” Potter mutters, kicking his foot. 

Severus turns off the light and rolls onto his side. He’s still not sure if Potter wants anything, but Severus is almost forty and has no intention of having sex every night just for the sake of having sex.  Severus has never been one to hold back his concerns, so he speaks up after a few moments of silence.

“Sex is not on the table tonight, Potter. I am undecided on the outcome of our experiment, and I do not often relinquish myself to hormonal demands.”

To Severus’ surprise, Potter actually looks relieved at this.

“I don’t think I could live up to your standards if you wanted it every night,” Potter whispers, and Severus gathers that he likely wasn’t meant to hear that. 

“That’s actually fine,” Potter comments louder, burrowing under his half of the covers. He twitches for a few moments, not finding a comfortable position to sleep.

“Harry,” Severus says, poking him in the shoulder.

“I’m worried,” Potter replies, rolling back over onto his back. “What if I screw things up at the ceremony? And what if we can’t get the memories back?”

Severus stares past Potter’s profile, blurring the features on Potter’s face as he focuses on the round black glasses sitting on the shelf.

“I was under the assumption that most of the messes you get into are avoided by winging it,” Severus says, rubbing his chilled feet together. He doesn’t put socks on anymore, as the bed gets too warm for them during the night.

“Somewhat. I wish I knew what the ministry’s role in this actually is, since you don’t think they have the memories,” Harry answers, his voice only slightly irritated.

Potter, who has never been particularly good at waiting for information to come to him, lets out a huff of irritation and rolls onto his stomach. He stretches himself out, and for a few minutes they have a wordless battle of limbs to claim the larger half of the bed. 

“The ministry is about to have a war with the guilds, and you’re about to jump in the middle of it,” Severus says a few moments later.  Potter has already fallen asleep.

…

Diagon Alley is full of a strange feeling of tension.  The shops are busy; people are milling about at the outdoor stalls, checking out the fashion displays at clothing stores, little children are racing up to the quidditch shop to check out brooms, and owls are zipping by overhead with parcels and letters.  Severus approaches the bank square quietly, keeping behind the crowds and walking unnoticed. He is not wearing his traditional dark robes, and with his short hair he goes unnoticed.  Potter is walking ahead, wearing a set of Severus’ muggle work clothes, and ducks into a small nook in the wall between Gambol & Japes and the Magical Menagerie. 

There is a large stage set up just to the side of Gringotts, and quite a few people milling about the ugly statue. It has a sheet covering it at the moment, and from Potter’s description, Severus can’t help but assume that the aesthetic value of the statue is actually _improved_ by the sheet.

Severus casually inspects the little bags of crocodile scales at the street stall next to him, pretending to listen to the bartering argument between a customer and the stall owner.  Out of the corner of his eye, Severus sees Weasley appear and then disappear into the same narrow doorway that Potter did, and he is impressed by the man’s speed. He counts slowly to himself, not even making it to five before Granger appears in his view and then slips out of sight.

Giving a look of distaste to the scales, Severus leaves the stall and walks over to the alcove between shops. The inset door is barely visible from the street, and the gold lettering on the door is worn dull.

“Nodder and Sons, Preservers Since 1442”

Severus can see several aurors in the crowd as he passes through, and he is quite certain that there are at least twelve unspeakables around.  He knows this because he can see the shadows of their midnight robes as they mingle through the crowds, all wearing a robe with blood red lining on the inside.  They look just normal and inconspicuous enough to grab his attention, much the way they had when they’d followed him during the first war when he was under surveillance.

The ceremony isn’t due to start for another forty-five minutes, and already Severus is disgusted by the amount of people who’ve arrived, some with cut-outs of bright yellow lightening bolts. He grimly wonders what contest prizes will be offered in replacement for the Victory Beans.

The door opens with no resistance – Granger’s work he supposes – and Severus can hear the voices of Potter and his friends up the steep, narrow staircase.  He ascends as quietly as he can, his cane making a light noise that Severus never would have accepted as a spy.

Severus takes in the long but narrow shop that he finds past the door at the top of the stairs, noting the one long wall of shelves with jars and jars of different types of salts on it. Potter, Granger, and Weasley are standing by the bookcases that neatly line the shelves opposite, poring over paperwork on the cash bar.  Severus isn’t close enough to read the titles of the books in the cases, but he can see enough to know they’re all quite varied.  A large picture hangs over the cash bar, one with what seems to be several generations of members all standing together in formal dress, with a large salt barrel in front of them.  Severus knows that he’s just walked into the headquarters for the wizarding chapter of The Salters’ Company, and as he suspects, of the Diagon Alley Shop Keepers Association as well.

“Where are the memories?” Weasley asks, and his voice is a bit too soft, as if he’s afraid that he’ll speak too loudly.

Severus stares straight at him, and answers slowly. He’s not quite sure how much hearing the potion has given the man.

“You don’t honestly think they’d be out in the open, do you?”

Somehow the sarcastic tone even reaches Weasley, and Severus smiles at the rude gesture he gets in return. They continue searching in the drawers of the counters, however, in the event that the DASKA were in fact dim enough to keep the memories easily accessible. 

A garbled sonorous announcement filters through the window and catches Severus’ ear as he studies the picture on the wall.  Several of the men wave at him, but most are busy puffing themselves up in an attempt to look impressive. There seem to be far too many generations in the portrait to even be possible, and Severus wonders if a spell has allowed the more recently deceased members to permanently re-locate to this portrait from another.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer tries again, this time quieting the crowd a little.  “The ceremony will start at ten, please feel free to browse about and shop before then.”

The voice is an oddly high nasaled one, with a slight accent that is remarkably similar to that of Florean Fortescue’s.  Severus imagines that the announcer is a family member of sorts.

Checking out the window, Severus can see that a sizable crowd has indeed arrived, and is pushing against the gates that have been set up around the statue. He notes with interest that at the back of the crowd are several red haired people, along with a few of the other members of Dumbledore’s Army.

“Layyyyydies and geeeentlemen.”

The voice comes from a back room behind the cash bar, and both Severus and Harry freeze. There is absolutely no question as to whom the voice belongs to, and they both snap their attention to the empty doorway at the end of the room.

“Potter,” Severus says, hardly moving his mouth. “Did you not check that the building was empty before starting to search it?”

Granger is using a mixture of mouthed words and pointed gestures to explain to Weasley what is happening, and Potter is staring curiously at the door.

“Of course I did,” he answers neutrally. “Tolstoy?”

After a few seconds the boy appears in the doorway, neat dark hair and bright blue eyes greeting them as he stares impassively around the room.

“Hullo, Otter.”

He finally sees Severus, and points at him.

“Rus.”

“Yes,” Severus answers, thinking fast. He maintains eye contact and asks softly,  “When you’re in trouble, Tolstoy, what does Grandad call you?” 

Tolstoy cocks his head to the side, as if he’s considering whether to answer or not.

“Erik Joseph Nodder.”

He beckons towards the back room and they follow slowly, Harry talking feverously to himself.

“The wards on the cottage are fine. Muggle repelling wards won’t work on Iain if he’s a wizard.”

Severus bites the inside of his cheek in annoyance, as it is very sloppy of him to have not noticed that Iain and Tolstoy are wizards.  He’s frustrated, and had enough of this little game. Stealing memories from the auror investigation is the only reason he can imagine for why an auror murdered Cardogan in daylight, and he knows that even this theory is a stretch as it is a rather violent one. He has no idea why he’d be placed in a cottage so close to another wizard, however, unless it has been a form of surveillance.

“Hide go seeeeek Rus,” Tolstoy says, holding his hand out for Severus.

Granger and Weasley are watching in fascination as Severus is lead by a nine or ten year old boy into the back room, which looks just as orderly as the front and is rather bare.  Severus grabs his hand hard, anticipating Tolstoy’s jerk reaction to being touched, and follows him towards the back of the office.  Tolstoy chooses a broom cupboard of all things to hide in, and Severus suspects that the boy thinks he is actually playing a game. At least Severus thinks so until the cupboard floors shift to make a set of stairs, and they begin to descend into darkness.

….

Severus checks the cheap muggle watch that he’s worn today, noting that they’ve only got three and a half hours before the containment spell will yank them back to the cottage. The sub cellar that they’ve descended to is suspiciously empty, and Severus nudges open the door on the far wall.  A long hallway presents itself, and Severus imagines that this is what the tunnels looked like before the London Underground had been put in. Severus has absolutely no desire to go down the tunnel –his dungeon classroom had been a sufficient façade for his war persona and only the headmaster had known of his spacious tower residence. He can smell a rather generic and unfortunate odour that some might call cologne, and the smell is lingering just strongly enough in the air for Severus to know that someone was in the tunnel recently.

“Fuck,” Severus mutters under his breath.  He takes a step into the hallway and pulls Tolstoy after him.

“Youuuu swoooore,” Tolstoy informs him.

There is a slight crackle-fizz sound as the line of lanterns on the wall blow out, and Severus is left standing against the damp stone corridor that runs underneath Diagon Alley.  Stale, cold air invades his nostrils, and Severus breathes slowly through his mouth to avoid the slight scent of mould he is certain he detects.

Before the light went out Severus is certain he saw not one, but two doors at the end of the hallway. Out of habit he draws his wand, though he knows he’ll likely not be able to use it. Severus is by nature cautious, and proceeds slowly, Potter and his friends following silently behind. Tolstoy, for some reason, sees no need to act as thus, and gaily grabs Severus’ hand as he strides down the hall.

“Hide go seeeeek,” Tolstoy tells again.

Severus only hopes that wherever they’re headed isn’t full of aurors.

……

The office that Tolstoy leads them to is actually rather large, from what Severus can see by peeking through the hinge that the open door provides. Inside he can see Iain moving about, his familiar cane smacking the stone floor as he moves from desk to bookcase and back.

“Erik, is that you?”  Iain calls, not looking up from his paperwork.  “We shall leave soon for the ceremony.”

Tolstoy ambles into the room and Severus follows him silently, pushing his hand back towards Potter to keep him and his friends in the shadows.

“Good morning, Iain,” Severus says, placing his own cane in front of him and holding it lightly. His limited wand is hidden in his sleeve, and he hopes that Iain is unaware of that particular restriction upon him.

“Rus!” Iain looks up startled, his hand stilling over a few papers. 

Severus keeps his head still but looks around the office with his eyes, noting small vials on a shelf off to the left of the room. They’re filled with a swirling opaque blue mist, and Severus would shake his head at the lack of hiding, if it didn’t make it easier for them.

“Imagine my surprise, Iain Nodder, to find that you are the head of the Salters’ Company,” Severus says, tapping his cane.  Tolstoy is sitting at a chair beside the desk, rolling a toy car back and forth across some parchment.  “And of the Diagon Alley Shop Keeper’s Association, if I am correct.”

Iain stands straighter, gifting Severus with a smile. It’s a grandfatherly one, and Severus is sorely tempted to use legilimency to see just how honest Iain’s expression is.

“You are.” 

Iain gathers his attaché case and pulls his wand out from the head of his cane, summoning his cloak. 

“With interesting timing comes that promotion, as well. Did you put out the hit?”

Iain stills and looks rather disgusted, and Severus can tell immediately that he had nothing to do with the murder.  Severus suspects that the old gentleman persona he’d encountered at the market in Kirkwell isn’t far off from Iain’s true self.

“I had nothing to do with that, Cardogan had himself killed.” His accent seems to have disappeared, but Severus can hear the very small undertones of it in Iain’s speech. It sounds as if Iain has spent many years away from where he was raised, and had tried to lose his thick accent.

“For stealing our memories,” Harry suddenly says, as he, Granger, and Weasley enter the room.  Iain looks further surprised to see them, and Tolstoy shows a flicker of interest in the new people before returning to his toy car.

“It was a foolish idea,” Iain mutters, holding his hands up. He’s under wandpoint now, as Potter, Granger and Weasley do not trust him. Severus lifts his cane and points to the back shelf, where the memory vials sit.

“We will be retrieving these.”

Iain’s expression remains neutral, and he nods in agreement.  Ron moves into the room and makes his way over, looking relieved to see that the memories are still properly labeled and sealed, as they were given to the ministry.

“Why exactly did you have them?” Potter asks, looking curious.  His wand is lowered, but still out and he flexes his fingers around it.

“Name-branding,” Iain explains, shrugging his cloak on. He’s ignoring the wands in the room and the fact that he’s outnumbered. “Walter Terrence Cardogan planned to use you to boost sales in the Alley, and your image as a squeaky clean defender is what he wanted.”

“Because you need the money to keep control of Hogwarts,” Severus says, not moving.  Tolstoy notices though that his grandfather is packing up, and stands to fetch his own coat.

“Believe me,” Iain says, his voice dark, “you’d rather it still be us than the ministry.”

He pushes four folders on the desk towards Harry and Hermione, nodding at them.  They’re stamped with the seal of the Ministry of Magic, and also with a crest that Severus recognizes to be similar to that of the auror division.

“The ceremony is in thirty minutes. I suggest you read fast.”

Iain walks past Severus, giving him a friendly nod as he leads Tolstoy out the office and down the dark hallway.

……

The candlelight flickers in the underground office as horrors are relived for Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, while Severus sits with Harry to sift through the ministry files.  There is revulsion, and disgust, evident on Severus’ face as he reads what is listed.  He’d originally been very wary of the guilds keeping hold of Hogwarts, but to see the plans that the ministry has…

“Do you think Kingsley knows?”  Harry asks, looking at the student profile in front of him. It’s one of many profiles that the unspeakables have highlighted as ‘children of interest.’  Neglected, attention starved children, exceedingly bright and ambitious. There are two further categories within the folder for this profile, one to set apart and monitor the children with documented dark streaks, and one to highlight and train the do-gooders.  It seems as if the ministry wishes to use Hogwarts to filter out certain skill sets in students.

“No. These are motions set forth by the auror and unspeakable departments.  They need only a vote of majority from the wizengamot to pass into law, without the minister’s sanction.”

Severus closes another file, one that details the personality traits of the common children, those the ministry have no real interest.  There are no further paths for these children. Potter is holding the last folder, and he shares that this folder details of how to mould the skills of prodigal students to fit the best interests of the ministry. Students with strengths in Defense, in Potions, in Transfiguration, and in spell crafting.

“They want a perfect society,” Hermione says, looking at the file folders with repugnance.  She points out a few key words to Ron, and he stares in disbelief.

“I believe, Miss Granger, they actually want a society they have complete control over.”

Weasley’s attention is caught on a scrap of parchment that is lying under the folders. The ink is still slightly damp on it, and it seems as if Iain had been marking it up when they arrived.  

“From the Unspeakable Office, Ministry of Magic,” Weasley reads, speaking normally as if the text has distracted him enough not to worry about his voice after hearing loss. 

“After careful deliberation, it is confirmed that with the evidence from the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts, overnight of May 2nd, 1998, we may move forward with the registration and regulation of all werewolves into beast classification, and begin deportation forthwith. Any half-breeds or spawns of these creatures will also be relocated, for the safety and preservation of the wizarding world’s culture and society.

Deliberations regarding the classification of veelas, vampires, trolls, and half-breed goblins will commence in one fortnight.” 

Harry snatches the paper out of Weasley’s hand, his eyes widening in disbelief as he reads further. In Iain’s royal blue ink are the names of three remote islands off the north west coast of the UK, where Severus suspects they intend to quarantine the werewolves. 

“They’re going to condemn Teddy. He’s not yet one,” Potter says, his expression aghast.

“There’s that,” Granger replies, clutching the empty vial of her memories in her hand. “Or the shop keepers’ solution of suppressing everything that happened and going on with life as if this war was a mere child’s game of tag.”

Potter’s eyes travel further down the desk, and he trails his finger over an official letter from the ministry’s auror department that he skims.

“They’ve already rejected Tolstoy,” Potter says, rubbing the official ministry seal. He can now see that Tolstoy is actually twelve, and was denied entrance to Hogwarts because of his autism.

Severus collects the folders and checks his watch.

“Well, Potter. Time to choose your side.”

Harry looks to be seriously considering this. They’d originally come with the charmed books (packaged and delivered to Gareth Blott just after nine), with the intention of proving to DASKA and the general public that Harry Potter is not a pure and innocent hero.  Severus knows that Potter greatly disapproves of the shop keepers using him as bait to lure more witches and wizards to spend their money in the Alley, but after seeing what plans the ministry intends to make of the school system and society’s half humans, Severus admits to himself that they are stuck trying to pick the lesser of two evils. Potter and Weasley are, at least. Severus has taught Granger long enough to easily predict exactly where she stands. 

………

Exiting back out into the tunnel hallway, Granger casts a spell to light the lamps and they are surprised to find that there are actually more doors in the room than they’d originally thought.  There is a door to each shop that exists in Diagon Alley, all carefully labeled, and Severus smiles at the implication.  The ministry may own the land that Diagon Alley itself is on, but underneath the shopkeepers have found a way to still travel if their route above is ever obstructed. 

Potage’s Cauldron Shop is just behind the ceremony stage, and Severus is only slightly disappointed that the owner of the shop, a man Severus has done business with for years, seems to not be surprised to see the four of them exit from a supplies cupboard into his shop. Just as Potter reaches the doorway, a clear voice reverberates through the glass to make a loud announcement.

“Attention all. The Diagon Alley statue unveiling ceremony has been cancelled. There is a message from the Ministry of Magic to follow. I repeat, the ceremony has been cancelled.”

The voice is tight with authority, but Severus can still hear the sneer in it, as if the woman in question thinks very little of the ceremony.  It’s an auror, Severus thinks, as she’s wearing the right robes and looks disgruntled to be dealing with the public. The crowd appears to be puzzled by the gruff tones of the auror, but they do seem to be both subdued and impressed by the uniforms.  Severus has always found that people associate a form of authority with uniforms, and it’s working for the aurors now.

He watches as six of them storm the crowd, descending upon the stage from all sides of the alley and pushing their way through the shoppers. They stand in a row behind they spokesauror, and shortly have loose control of a crowd of five hundred or so people.

There is a small uproar at the front of the crowd, however, where the more diehard fans of the Boy Wonder are standing with their lightening bolt cut outs and demanding to know what’s happening. 

“The event has been cancelled. There will be no heroes here today,” the auror is heard answering irritably, as if she’s forgotten her voice is under sonorous. Iain is standing to her left, looking mighty annoyed and under constraint from two younger aurors standing by. Severus wonders where Tolstoy is, and if he’s safe.

“This is a sanctioned contest, you cannot just cancel it upon whim,” Iain demands. 

“This is ministry land you’re standing on,” the auror hisses towards Iain, her voice back to normal. 

“Ah, we’re back to that, are we?” Iain asks, shaking his arms loose from the grips of the aurors.  Severus is inordinately pleased that Iain is able to cast a wandless sonorous.  Not because he particularly agrees with Iain’s general plan of action, but because his statement angers quite a few ministry aurors that are attempting to look intimidating. The crowd is watching with rapt attention.

“Are you going to evict the public from the Alley? Alienate the survivors of the war who’ve come for a silly and fun contest, and to purchase a simple recipe book from Harry Potter?”

The auror points to the statue as the crowd murmurs, and Severus eyes her critically. He thinks he’s seen her, a tall and rather unfortunate looking blonde woman, around the cottage before.

“Actually,” the auror smiles nastily, “we’d be glad to talk about one and the same.”

“I beg your pardon?” Iain asks, and he’s let go.  There are now six aurors spread out on stage in addition to the spokesauror, but Severus and the three heroes have yet to be spotted from their vantage point behind stage.

“What your esteemed host has not seen fit to tell you, is that Harry Potter is a murderer.” 

The auror has turned back to the crowd, and her voice echoes against the thousand-year-old brick that make up the shops along the street.   People are sticking their heads out windows to listen, and movement inside of shops has ceased as well.

“The auror department has spent the last five months investigating the actions of key witches and wizards during the Final Battle at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and we have come to the conclusion that the so called heroes of the war did not act heroically.”

The murmuring starts, and Severus fingers the wand that’s in his pocket.  He plans to stay close to Potter, as Potter has the Elder wand and they’ve discovered that it still works outside of the cottage boundaries. 

“Where the hell is Shacklebolt?” Potter hisses angrily as Granger tries to keep Weasley up to speed with the banter.

“They’re keeping him in the dark,” Severus replies.

Some of the fans in the front row have taken offense to the auror’s statements, and are starting to yell back.

“I assure you,” the auror says with a glare, “we have reviewed exactly what has happened in the final battle, and as such have placed Mr Potter under observation until a proper assessment of his power level can be made.  The ministry will also be bringing in new laws regarding the control of werewolves and trolls, after the massacre that occurred during the battle.”

More jeers and yelling wash over the stage, and one particularly loud wizard is heard shouting a demand to know why Potter is being controlled.

The auror narrows her eyes as she answers, pointing her finger menacingly at the crowd.

“Harry Potter survived the killing curse not once, but twice, and defeated a wizard that countless aurors and specifically trained hit wizards failed to do. We wish to prevent a similar occurrence, should Mr Potter turn dark or another gifted child choose the wrong path.”

The potion that Severus had assisted Potter with for Weasley seems to have restored more of Weasley’s hearing than Severus had originally thought possible, going by the angered look on the man’s face.   Granger has a calm and cool look about her, which Severus secretly admires. He always enjoys the silent types, as their explosions are usually legendary.

“Where’s your proof of this!” Iain demands, his voice louder than the crowd’s cries of outrage as he’s still got the sonorous charm active.

Potter is riled up to the point that his limbs are trembling, likely in anger Severus thinks, and he finally steps up onto the stage.

“Right here.”

The crowd goes silent at the sight of him, and Potter pauses long enough to yank Severus up onto stage (with Weasley’s help) and then stalk over to the lead auror. There is no other word for it, as the boy seems to have perfected a menacing stalk.

Just before he gets there, Potter seems to notice who is standing in the front row and his step falters ever so slightly.  Ginevra Weasley is standing with her mother and one brother, the one who works for the ministry and had been giving them information. Her eyes are huge and follow Potter’s every movement as she tugs on her mother’s sleeve. 

“Mum! That’s the Boy Who Lived that you told me about!”

Severus had been smirking at the young witches in the crowd who are eyeing Potter hungrily, no doubt fancying themselves as a potential mate for him. He’d been smug in his knowledge that he is the one to have bed Potter. He feels a slight twinge of empathy for Potter now, however, because the person Potter had his first time with no longer exists, and yet he can still see her and talk to her.

Potter regains his composure and Severus watches as he pulls up the side of his jumper, exposing his torso and the angry barbed wire scar.  There is a gasp from the crowd, particularly the front rows where the view is the best, and Potter puts his wand to his throat.  The aurors on stage inch a little closer, but seemed to freeze upon recognizing the wand that Potter is holding. Whether they see it as the Elder wand, or simply Albus Dumbledore’s, they hold back from approaching.

“Mr Potter – ”

“I killed fourteen people in the final battle.”

The spokesauror’s eyes widen and she says nothing. Weasley casts a non-verbal sonorous next, and points to his ears.

“I was cursed deaf. And I murdered Draco Malfoy.”

He nods to Hermione, and Severus has a flashback to the excited and impatient first year that was jumping out of her seat with answers. This Hermione Granger is calmer, composed, and slightly jaded.

“I obliviated all memories of me from my parents.” She holds up her left arm, the scarred Mudblood slightly faded but still legible to the news cameras that catch it.

“And I polyjuiced into Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Potter steps forward and then takes Severus’ cane, holding it up in front of him and inspecting the carvings.

“Headmaster Snape was attacked by Voldemort’s snake while trying to defend Hogwarts. And now he’s been imprisoned for not preventing Voldemort from murdering someone.”

Severus wrenches the cane back from the boy, annoyed that Potter feels the urge to air dirty laundry. 

“Aren’t we all guilty of that?”  Granger asks, startling Severus slightly.

“War is no excuse for murder,” the auror barks, making the crowd jump.  Severus is certain they’re well on their way to mutinous, but they’re not quite there yet.

“You’re using it as an excuse for segregation,” Potter accuses, standing slightly in front of Severus and the other two. The crowd starts to angrily shout, and Severus holds up his hand to quell them. He has apparently made more of an impression on Hogwarts students for the past twenty years than he’d thought, as the gesture works.

“Does Kingsley Shacklebolt know that the auror division is planning on locking away the werewolves and anyone they’ve infected? Does he know that you plan on profiling child prodigies to train them for your own uses?”

The auror stands up to Potter, and she looks like she’s almost spitting.

“You have no idea what you’re ta –”

“I know what I’m talking about! You want to lock up my godson just because his father was a werewolf! You want to monitor kids who fit your dangerous wizard profile so we don’t get another Tom Riddle! And you want to demonize me because I did the very thing that the wizarding world had condemned me to do since I was fifteen, and people got hurt in the process.”

“Perhaps this discussion could be better continued at the ministry’s offices,” a second auror speaks up, and Severus looks at him with a glint of a smile. It’s the younger auror that comes to check up on him every week. 

“Yes, perhaps,” Severus says.  “I believe we are missing the presence of one rather important person, however.”

Severus is impressed at the timing of Potter, Weasley, and Granger as they all pull wands and summon patronuses at the same time, though he maintains a glare towards Potter. Their original plan had been to not let the aurors see that Potter could still perform magic with the Elder wand outside of the cottage property he’d been restricted to. 

The aurors shuffle about on stage, appearing rather agitated now that the minister of magic has been requested to hold an emergency meeting. The crowd, angry that they’ve been played (and seeming to momentarily forget that Iain had also planned to take advantage of their earnings), mutter murderously towards the aurors, shaking fists, wands, broomsticks, cauldrons, and whatever other purchases they have at the time. A path is parted towards the ministry offices, and Potter steps down off the stage, leading the way. He seems reluctant to do so but the crowd pushes him forward.

He looks for a moment as if he is planning to take Severus’ arm, as the streets are uneven and the cobbles worn smooth from centuries of use. Severus emits a low growl, and they proceed along the street, Weasley and Granger behind them, the aurors following suit and egged on by the crowd.

After this, Severus is confused in a whirlwind of activity. Kingsley Shacklebolt arrives in the atrium to find his constituents in an absolute uproar, and amongst the explanations, the papers from Iain, the incessant shouting of Potter, and his fastidious checking of time (they now only have two hours left before they are yanked back to the cottage), Severus loses Potter. Severus is brought to a lower level courtroom, and he feels his skin crawl beneath his stone-faced exterior as he recognizes the courtroom as one he’d been judged in as a junior death eater.

Thirty minutes pass, thirty minutes of staring at the glossy green-black tiles on the wall and mentally cursing the auror that is guarding him.  Severus hears nothing of what’s happening in the upper levels of the ministry, and he wonders if he’ll be spending the night in a cell. He’s certain that starting a riot is against the terms of his parole, but it hadn’t actually explicitly been mentioned in the paperwork they’d given him when he was first placed in the cottage.

A door behind him clicks open, and Severus prides himself on not reacting at all. He knows that the aurors enjoy keeping their suspects and prisoners off balance with sudden sounds and flickering lights.

“You’re free to go.”

It’s an older wizard that walks in, one that Severus thinks might be part of the wizengamot.

“Am I now? I was beginning to wonder why I was here in the first place,” Severus sneers, and he is amused that the man seems annoyed with his attitude. 

A scroll is tossed at him as Severus makes to leave, and he places it in his pocket to read once he’s left the ministry.  Severus allows himself a rather malicious smile as he walks through the atrium, watching the auror that had murdered Cardogan be bodily dragged through the ministry, under arrest.  Shacklebolt, it seems, is back on top of things. 

Stepping outside, Severus keeps to the shadows and spends a few minutes watching the owls at the post office fly in and out of the owlrey before opening his scroll. A full pardon, signed by his Order of the Phoenix colleague and now Minister of Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt. 

Severus looks up into the grey October skies above the alley, wondering if his little cottage will be any warmer if it snows.  People are milling about around him, but no one says anything to him save for the odd tipping of a head.  Potter is nowhere to be found, and Severus berates himself for feeling slightly disappointed at this. Potter has his friends back now, his mystery solved, and his absolution.  Severus knows he is a fool to expect anything else from Potter.

He passes by Fortescue’s parlour and sees quite a few people sitting in the outdoor café, reading Potter’s book. Steaming mugs of coffee, butterbeer, hot chocolate, and tea sit ignored on the small wrought iron tables as their owners read through the chapters.  Severus wraps his scarf tighter around his neck and clutches his cane tighter.  The book cover is bold and the red metallic embossed lettering jumps out at him against the black matte hardcover:

HARRY POTTER SHOULD HAVE DIED.

….

The apparition point outside of Severus’ cottage is within view of the front gate.  Severus arrives with a small whoosh of air, something he’s perfected after years of apparition in the shadows, and his walk is only slightly less impressive as it used to be, aided by his cane.  There is fog starting to settle in the valley, and for once Severus doesn’t feel an itch to return over the property line.  He flips open the gate and starts down his path, drawing his wand and pointing it at the small stone cottage.

Muttering in perfect Latin under his breath, Severus sets his own strict security wards on the cottage. He’s lived there for five months now, and as much as Severus never thought he’d find himself in a small little isolated cottage, he’s become comfortable with how the house settles. 

Severus walks down the path towards the front door, spying Potter sitting on the stoop. He’s dressed down, with a scarf tied loosely around his neck, and he’s holding a steaming mug of something.  The steam curls up around Potter’s face, and he takes a small sip, as if he’s not seen Severus.

Severus stops a few steps from the door, staring down at Harry Potter’s messy head.  He says nothing; nothing to signal that he may have felt the remotest sense of loss at the idea that Potter would not return to the cottage with him. He certainly doesn’t allow any expression of relief to flit across his face upon seeing the man.

Potter, annoying twit that he is, seems to have noticed any way. 

“You’re late,” Potter says, finally craning his neck to look up.  “I’ve got a stew on the stove.”

After studying him for a moment, Severus slowly extends his hand to help Potter up.  Harry rises to his feet quicker than expected, and rests his head against Severus’ shoulder for a few moments, hand held strongly in Severus’ own.  He smiles softly, and turns toward the warm cottage.

“Your cooking is surprisingly tolerable,” Severus admits, and unconsciously places his hand on the small of Potter’s back as he follows the man into the house.  “Though I will withhold any further judgment until after a long term study.”

Severus can’t see it, but he knows Potter is smiling.

 


End file.
